


The Taste of Strawberries and Cream

by Illegible_Scribble



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Food Sex, Love Confessions, M/M, Oral Sex, Pre-Quest & Post-Quest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2020-09-07 00:35:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20300539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Illegible_Scribble/pseuds/Illegible_Scribble
Summary: When finally made free of his burden, Frodo recalls a memory as sweet to the mind as it had been to the tongue. He is thereafter glad to learn alongside Sam, that they can make many more memories together, just as sweet, if not sweeter - especially when strawberries and cream are involved.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The wonderful artwork featured here is by [acidicgumdrops](https://acidicgumdrops.tumblr.com/) on tumblr! Go follow her! She's awesome! Also, many, many thanks to the wonderful [YamBits](https://archiveofourown.org/users/YamBits) for being such an awesome beta reader. <3

He never would have thought he could still stand at the journey's end, and feel as though he'd never borne something akin to the sky above the world on his shoulders. His burden was gone, and in the absence of his pain beneath it, memories it had suffocated returned like a river recently overcome a dam.

As the black curtain veiling the sky far in the north was pushed back by a great wind, he could swear for just a moment he could feel that wind, fresh and chill and sweet, blowing away the ash that rained down upon them in a mockery of snow.

His memories were distant, as though they had been seen through another's eyes, but their vividness began to return as Frodo squeezed Sam's hand, though his own throbbed painfully for its missing finger. He looked at Sam, and he saw home.

Sam turned to look at him, and Frodo recalled for certain those memories were his own. There was more to this world than this land here at its end, belching lava and smoke and ash – the green grass and gentle rivers of the Shire were real, and they still were, and always would be for their presence here. Frodo had been there, and he had lived and loved.

Had he any tears left, Frodo would've wept as he recalled Merry and Pippin and Bilbo, and Gandalf and Brandy Hall and Bag End, and the Green Dragon and the Free Fair at Midsummer, and his misspent youth in Farmer Maggot's fields and later his long nights reading in Bilbo's beautiful library. All of those things had happened, and many places were still there, but had no place here at world's end. To Frodo, they lived only in his memories, and would soon be lost forever.

In a great wave he was overcome with this recollections of all he had once had, and looking at Sam he quietly sobbed with a rasp, as he had only endured the past year and kept some shard of hope in his heart because of Sam. Sam, who had been there for every grueling step of this journey, bearing him up and caring for him, and once was only a little lad learning his letters with Bilbo.

Most of all Frodo now remembered Sam, dearest Samwise, from each moment of care on the Quest all the way back to the sweet, green days of the Shire. Frodo remembered the time with painful clarity, when the Gamgees would briefly leave to help friends and family with the haying in the fields, when birds nested in the thicket just beyond the garden, and most of all, the taste of strawberries and cream.

~

Frodo had been anxious and stressed on his birthday before, particularly when something extravagant was planned and he wanted it to go just right, but today was different. Not so long ago he'd thought his fiftieth would be something of grandeur and excitement, and perhaps kick off an adventure like Bilbo's.

If a hobbit had told him the year before he'd be officiating the sale of Bag End – _to the Sackville-Bagginses – _the day after, and the smial would be virtually empty of furniture, and his going-away party was not to commemorate the beginning of a treasure-hunt, but a journey to lose a treasure, he would've laughed at them. Bilbo's good fortune had been notorious, and once Frodo was confident he was enough like his uncle to have inherited some of it.

He was fifty years old today, in his wine cellar, picking up a bottle of Old Winyards he'd been hoping to save for some years yet – but under no circumstances were the S.B.s going to have a drop of the stuff. He sighed, looking at the bottle mournfully, considered the weight of the Ring in his pocket, the fact that Gandalf had not held to his word, and he didn't feel lucky at all.  
“Sir?” The wine cellar was part of one small collection of rooms in the smial that had a staircase downwards, and Frodo turned to see hos gardener, Samwise Gamgee, at the top, looking down at him with a tentative curiosity.

For this at least, Frodo felt his sinking spirits rise. Now confronted with the reality he was going to have to leave the Shire – perhaps forever, though he desperately hoped not – he felt comfort more than guilt that someone would be going with him. He was sorry for Sam that he would be joining his master in exile, and would have to face whatever threats they encountered, but he was glad to have someone along with him. Especially someone as devoted and – the word came suddenly and unbidden to his mind – sweet.

Bilbo had always said he didn't know a single group of hobbits more dedicated than the Gamgees, and that trait had certainly passed on to Sam. He spent long hours in the garden caring and talking to the plants almost as if they were his children, and cheerfully keeping Bag End in order, and even looking after Frodo himself at times, all above and beyond what he'd ever been asked to do. His company always seemed to have a bolstering and cheering affect on Frodo, and of all the hobbits that Gandalf might have chosen to go on this coming adventure with him, he was glad it had been Sam.

“Hullo, Sam; just been pulling out the wine for dinner. Is everything well?”

“Aye, the girls are right proud of the centerpiece; and you ought to see it, Sir, for all its colors and perfume.” he paused, and though he was backlit by the light of the hall, Frodo wondered if he could see a blush rise on his gardener's cheeks. “It- well, it an' a letter we all put together are a bit like a goodbye present, if you will, Sir. Even me Gaffer put in some words. … They're all awful sad to see you go, Sir.”

Frodo looked down at the bottle in his hands, feeling a surge of loss. “Yes, I know.” _I'm sorry,_ he wanted to say, though he wasn't sure what he would be apologizing for, or even to whom. “That was very sweet of all of you. I'm sure the centerpiece is beautiful, and the letter just as much.”

Sam seemed to brighten at this. “They'll all be awful pleased to hear it.”

“If there's time today or tomorrow, I'll drop by Number Three and say so in person.” and again Frodo felt an emptiness creeping into his heart. During Frodo's life in the Hill, the Gamgees had always been wonderfully kind, and though their classes meant a necessary distance be kept, they had always been there, like family, whenever Frodo or Bilbo had needed them. They were family. And Frodo was leaving them forever – and taking their youngest son with him. He hoped Sam couldn't see the tears he felt gathering.

“That would be awful kind, Sir.” Sam ducked his head, and cleared his throat shyly, before straightening. “In the meantime, d'you need a hand with the cooking?”

A lesson learned long ago for Frodo – then, a young member of the gentry – was that if one were hosting a party – unless it were of a potluck sort – one provided the food. Even if the host were outnumbered by their guests. Frodo didn't dislike cooking, but cooking for a party of six hobbits including himself, alone – on his birthday – was a depressing notion. “If you don't mind, Sam, your help would be wonderful.”

“Aye. Garden's done as near as I could say, what with the S.-B.'s comin' tomorrow – if you don't mind my saying – an' I've the rest of the day to meself.”

Frodo nodded with a thank-you, gathered the last of the bottles into a careful armload, and ascended the stairs. Gratefully he handed a few to Sam – who turned scarlet and trembled to be handling such expensive wine – and they made their way to the kitchen. “You will be staying for dinner, won't you, Sam?” Frodo asked as they set the bottles down with various clinks.

Sam stared briefly, as if a woodland animal startled, before looking at Frodo with surprise. “With you an' Mister Merry an' Mister Pip-”

“Yes, with all of us.” said Frodo, smiling gently. “I'm sure, and they are as well. They all know the Gamgees have been very important to the Bagginses for a long time, and you're the only one coming with me... away, though they don't know how far. They'll be honored to sit with you.” Even if they weren't, Frodo would exercise a few choice words to change that.

Briefly it looked as though Sam were trying to swallow his tongue, turning the bottles so the labels all faced neatly and outwards on the table, before he managed softly, “Th-thank'ee. I'll stay, yes. Thank'ee!”

Though unsure of what compelled him to do so, Frodo placed a hand on Sam's arm and gave it a companionable squeeze, and was privately impressed at the strength he felt in it. “Of course, Sam.” and he smiled, which Sam caught in a gaze that flickered shyly to and away in turns.

With the wine gathered settled in a secluded corner of the kitchen, and ready to later be opened and to breathe, Frodo and Sam set about pulling out and preparing the ingredients for the various dishes to be served that night. It was late morning, and Frodo felt a prickle of anxiety over whether or not he ought to have begun sooner, with all there was to do.

Vegetables (and the ever-important mushrooms) were scrubbed and cut, dough was mixed and kneaded, the chicken was seasoned, and broths were put on to boil and simmer, and bit by bit – though the tidiness of the kitchen deteriorated somewhat throughout – things were put on the stove or in the oven, and a delicious fragrance began to fill the smial.

By the time the chicken had gone in, the fried mushrooms, shepard's pie and mashed potatoes were all cooked and needed only to be warmed again when ready, the final thing left on Frodo's list was a dessert. The day before he'd bought two quarts of strawberries, of a special variety from the Southfarthing that kept giving fruit until the very cusp of winter, and Frodo was impressed and taken with not only their longevity, but also their juicy sweetness.

Before they began on the dessert, the two took a break to eat in the early afternoon, hardly able to stand the smell of the kitchen without eating something. They were simple sandwiches to finish off the last of the cold cuts stored in the smial's icebox, but as they sat down at the breakfast table to eat, Frodo's eyes wandered, and settled longingly, on the Old Winyards across the room. “Sam,” he said, “I know it's early and would be extravagant, but as a Baggins and prone to such behavior, I ask: would you be interested in a taste of Old Winyards?”

Sam stared, closing his mouth quickly and setting down his sandwich. “It. It is early, Sir. An' we've still some cooking to do.” His own gaze darted to the bottles and his blush returned, and Frodo suspected what Sam left unsaid was the belief the Gamgees weren't fine enough for such fare.  
“Just a sip before the party starts, for a chance to enjoy the taste, and unwind a bit after all... this.” Frodo waved a hand vaguely around the room, indicating more obviously the cooking, but to himself thinking of the entire sale and moving affair. “Only enough to relax a little.”

A thoughtful look overcame Sam's face, and he studied Frodo for a long moment, considering. “Are you absolutely sure, Sir?” a note of concern was in his voice.

Frodo nodded, and rose. “A taster for us each.” he spoke warmly, and smiled, and Sam relaxed.

“Thank you.”

Frodo selected what he personally viewed as the best and oldest wine – not for any particular reason, aside from perhaps inciting a little jealousy in his cousins for having a taste of it first, and in a quiet moment without them – popped the cork, and in classic gentlehobbit fashion, sniffed it. He had never been any particular connoisseur, but estimated the smell was sweet and fragrant, and then offered it to Sam. “Afeared I ain't sure what I'd be smellin' for,” he said in surprise when presented it.

“There isn't very much, really,” said Frodo, “it's mostly a silly tradition for the rich and snotty. The only important thing is it smells nice and not rancid, and you feel a bit fun and posh when you do it.”

Like a cat, Sam tilted his head slightly at the cork, then with a small shrug and look for reassurance up at Frodo, gave it a sniff. He blinked and tilted his head the other way, before nodding. “It smells mighty fine. No trace a' mold as I can see- er, smell.”

They shared a smile – Sam's slightly more abashed than Frodo's – while Frodo set the cork back near the wine, and let it breathe as they ate.

Sam insistently gathered their dishes when they were done, and while he washed them, Frodo pulled two plain wine glasses from the cabinets. The fine crystal he'd inherited from his parents and even Bilbo had already been packed away and sent to Crickhollow, and these cheap things would be left (possibly unwashed, Frodo hadn't decided yet) for the S.-B.s. He regretted he couldn't offer Sam something finer, and might not be able to in the future.

He poured slightly more than two mouthfuls into each glass, re-corked the bottle, and set it in the back to hide innocently among the other, as-yet unopened ones. 'So you opened up the oldest just for Sam, eh?' he could hear Merry asking.

'Yes,' Frodo's inner monologue answered Merry's voice, 'he helped with the cooking and cleaning while you louts were-'

'Busy overseeing your move.'

'Shut up.' Frodo told Merry's voice firmly, turning to Sam with a bright smile, and offering him his glass after the gardener had finished drying his hands. “I propose a toast,” he said, as Sam took his glass with thanks.

“Aye, that would be fair.” Sam looked down briefly at the rich, dark purple liquid in his glass, his eyes wide as if disbelieving he'd been handed something so old and fine. “I'm thinkin' every glass deserves one.”

Frodo had not even had a sip and yet felt something giddy in his chest to see Sam's awe. “I'd imagine rather later tonight we won't have the sense for them, but I think you're very right.” he quieted for a moment as they raised their glasses, and after a moment's thought, said, “To the homes ahead and behind, and the people that have made them.”

Something seemed to strike Sam with that sentiment, and for a moment he met Frodo's eyes, and they seemed to look for something in one another's gaze. _Not merely brown_, Frodo thought to himself, _but they've flecks of green and gold as well. Like a forest glade._ “Hear, hear.” Sam said at last, and quietly, and the clink of their glasses echoed throughout the quiet halls.

Frodo felt he were sipping liquid velvet, and blessed Bilbo thrice over for having left plenty for Frodo to do with as he wished. Within a short while it felt as though the tension he'd been carrying for the past few days had melted.

“It's-” Sam murmured after his first sip, “like drinkin' crystal streams an' sunlight an' good earth an' rain.” his brow furrowed. “But- all sweet an' fine. The grapes... they was grown with love.”

“Mmhm.” Frodo said through a sip. “The vineyards are immense but tended exceptionally well.”

“You've seen them?”

“Once,” said Frodo, swirling his glass. “On a courtesy trip to see the S.-B.s. Bilbo made up for it by taking me to see the vineyards.” He smirked to himself, happy to recall a good memory after the sourness of those of his family. “I was terribly naughty and snuck a grape off the vine – and it was heavenly – and though Bilbo scolded me, I think he took one as well.” His expression fell. “I do miss him.”

“Aye,” Sam looked down, and mournful, “hasn't been the same since he left, an' it won't never be wi'out a proper Baggins in the Hill.”

Frodo felt more grief than was polite to say. He hoped they could come back someday, or at least Sam, to see if that would prove true or not. “Perhaps we'll see him again, out in the Blue.” Frodo suggested, offering a weak smile. “And... and after... when, we come back, I could take you to see the Winyards.”

There was still that ever-present shyness in Sam's demeanor, but a distinctive and genuine brightness in his smile. “Both of those would be awful lovely.”

One thought seemed to pass between them both, and their glasses touched again in a second, though less proper toast. “Yes.” said Frodo, and finished his glass.

Bag End was fortunate enough to be quite luxurious and large, and had more than one oven. While the chicken baked in one, the cake was in the other. Feeling no necessity in being strictly prim and proper in his own home, Frodo split the work of scraping the bowl of batter with Sam before they set about preparing the strawberries and cream, that would serve as both filling and icing.

Frodo elected to cut the strawberries, while Sam next to him set to work on mixing and beating the cream. It had been a quiet and unhurried process so far, much to Frodo's relief. He was immensely grateful for Sam's strong arms taking over the mixing when his own had grown tired, and there had been something... relaxing and almost playful to see Sam loosening up throughout the day, from agreeing to a wine tasting and then scraping the bowl with him.

For everything Frodo feared they were about to endure together, going into the Wild as only two when once Bilbo had been accompanied by fourteen, he recognized at last a craving that had grown in his heart to be not only Sam's master, but also his friend.

“Are those the summer-long strawberries from Southfarthing?” Sam asked a little ways into their work.

“They are; I saw them in the market yesterday, and was so astounded to see strawberries at all, I couldn't help myself.”

“I haven't had 'em too often, but they'd mighty fine by my estimate. The Gaffer thinks it's nonsense for 'em to keep goin' so long, but I don't mind if it means strawberries in autumn.”

Frodo smiled, stealing a glance up at Sam, who seemed pleasantly focused on his mixing, but still never shy to offer his father's thoughts on a given subject. “What do the girls think?”

“Same as I do, if I'm not mistakin'. They ain't the sort to say no to strawberries anytime a' year.”

“I'm of the same mind. A pumpkin pie or somesuch simply wouldn't be the same for this.” A brief quiet passed, before Frodo found himself overcome with curiosity, and after removing the top of a strawberry, popped it in his mouth. It was as sweet and juicy as any strawberry from summer, and he involuntarily hummed his pleasure. “Sam, these are exquisite. Before they go in the sugar and such, would you like to try one?”

Sam, as he himself had said before, was not the kind to turn down strawberries. “If we've enough to spare, then- aye, please and thank'ee.”

“We've plenty,” Frodo assured, licking his lips for the last traces of juice, before a thought came to his mind – perhaps put there by the wine – a little wicked and... something else.

He cut the top off another strawberry, and presented it to Sam – but not to the hand he had begun to raise to take it. “Here you are,” said Frodo, trying to contain the smile struggling to wind its way much too far across his face, “they're truly wonderful.” the berry was presented to Sam's lips, direct from Frodo's own fingers, and the gardener's mouth was slightly agape in surprise, and his eyes wide.

“Oh,” he breathed, and Frodo felt the warmth of Sam's breath gust over his fingers. His eyes slid to Frodo, who offered him a sincere but expecting look, and a smile, before focusing again on the strawberry. With nothing else for it, he took a bite, and a moment later hummed much as Frodo had. “That _is _wonderful.” His face was a shade none too far from the berry's as he hurried to take the second bite, and his lips brushed Frodo's fingers as he took the last of the fruit.

It wasn't a sensation Frodo minded. “I'm glad you like it!” he said brightly. “I hope they taste just as lovely in the cake, but we do have some extra to keep for ourselves, if we like.”

Sam was looking thoughtfully down at the bowl, and began mixing it again, but slowly, “I'd like that awful much, s'pecially if we've still some cream to go with 'em.”

“I think that would be brilliant.”

“... But... In case not... mayhap a taste now wouldn't go awry?” Frodo raised his eyebrows in expectation, and Sam pulled a small spoon from a nearby drawer, a strawberry from the pile Frodo had already cut free of leaves, and spooned a bit of cream onto it.

“Ah, if you like, Sir,” he said, trying to offer it carefully.

Frodo, likely acting more on the wine than sense, smiled more broadly than before – and with more mischief – and bent down just enough to eat the strawberry from Sam's fingers. He heard Sam exhale sharply from his nose as he courageously took the fruit in one bite, smearing cream across his lips and Sam's fingers as well. “That,” said Frodo, after he had swallowed enough to speak, “is even better.”

Sam was left to stare at the cream Frodo's lips had touched, and while he thought Frodo was not looking as he licked his lips clean, made the decision not to waste it, and licked his fingers. “An' the cream's not quite all the way smooth, yet,” he explained shakily, “an' I'm glad it's good in spite a' that.”

“Very good,” said Frodo, grabbing a towel to dry his mouth, and hoping suddenly he'd not made Sam uncomfortable. “I think you ought to try it as well.”

A glance was split first between Frodo, and then the bowl, before Sam slowly took another strawberry and coated it with cream. He raised it – perhaps not in the direction of his mouth – but nearly dropped it out of fright when a loud knocking at the door shattered the moment. “Hoy, Frodo! It's your moving service!” Coming from outside, Pippin's voice was slightly muffled, but loud enough to carry easily to the kitchen.

“Bugger.” Frodo mumbled, scowling. A scowl which melted immediately to something tender as he touched Sam's arm. “I'm sorry,” he said, not quite sure what for, “but it's all right. The cream is truly lovely.” He felt the impulse to do more than squeeze Sam's arm – Sam who had gone stalk-still and looked a guilty scarlet, the strawberry still held in his frozen hand – but he could not think of what before he left Sam's side to go to the door.

Frodo was ever the gracious host, and contented his guests with wine and appetizers, and the main courses had finally been brought out early that evening. However, he had been soured by whatever moment he had so briefly shared in the kitchen with Sam being interrupted, and the party finally starting was a dreadful reminder to him that his departure was inevitable, and this would be the last merry time he would be eating with his friends.

Something else lurked like a frightening shadow at the back of Frodo's thoughts. Gandalf still had not come, and Frodo was afraid.

But in spite of the gloom on his spirits, his friends (aside from Sam, who warmed as well as he could to dining with Frodo's friends) were full of unbridled cheer, and they recounted dozens of fond memories and tales, sang many songs, and reveled in the Old Winyards as they toasted Bilbo again and again. The oldest bottle was the last they drank, and no one seemed to notice it had been opened before. Frodo drained his last glass with a proclamation of smug delight it would go untouched by the S.-B.s, and then briefly caught Sam's lingering gaze, as he had when they cut into the cake.

They sang long into the night, until they wearied themselves with laughter, and as the celebrations wound down they stepped out into the garden for a breath of fresh air, and for Merry a smoke. Sam stood a little way apart from the others, looking across the yard which had so long been in his care, and Frodo went to him after another few laughs with his cousins and friends. “All right?” he asked softly.

Sam's chest heaved with a long breath, and Frodo heard his voice wobble with tears. “T'is a lot to say goodbye to.” he murmured.

Frodo had tried so much to avoid thinking about this the past few days, but now standing here he was reminded it was inevitable. This garden, where he felt he'd spent so much of his life, out reading with Bilbo or smoking or talking with the Gamgees, full of such an array of color and fragrances in the spring and summer, would soon no longer be his. It had been raised for decades with such love, and been loved so much by so many, and Frodo was going to lose it, perhaps forever.

It took him a minute or two to find his voice. His hand rose, and this time it found Sam's hand instead of his arm. “Thank you,” his voice was a whisper, “for helping make this beautiful place. And make it home.”

Sam faintly squeezed his hand.

The stars shone high above, far away and indifferent to the struggles of the mortals below – except, perhaps, for the Star of Eärendil. Frodo's gaze lingered on this one, and to himself he spoke a wish for a safe voyage.

They went to bed soon after, and Gandalf had not come.


	2. Chapter 2

A part of him acknowledged how parched his mouth and throat were, and how gasping for ash-filled air razed his lungs like spears, and he mourned that he had no tears left to help soothe the tulmut of emotion inside of him as he struggled for breath and words. Sam's wish to hear Frodo's tale – _their_ tale – put into song, and what would come after, broke his heart, especially to remember they had come so far, and endured so much, and now their chapter was closing, a world away from everyone else's.

“I don't know,” his breath was ragged, from the ash-filled air and emotion, “but I do know our story has been beautiful, and it will be beautiful in its telling.” His blood-slick and maimed hand held one of Sam's with a fierce tightness, and Sam turned fully away from the north now, no longer regarding the wind and the clear sky for Frodo. “It was beautiful before we even left the Shire.”

He remembered, somehow for this one moment he felt as if the wind far away were blowing away fog that had concealed memories that went long unremembered, and he looked at them and revered them. They were chiefly of Sam, from the first time Frodo had held him as a babe, when he was visiting his uncle and Mrs. Gamgee had just delivered her youngest child, and how pinched and pink Frodo had thought he looked, but also his endearment to little Sam's curious and fierce grip on one of Frodo's fingers.

He remembered Sam's youth before and after Frodo's parents had died, when he'd been an amusing sight to see scampering after Bilbo or to tell stories to. Then, to almost a necessary crutch in this new home to introduce him to some of the other local youngsters, and for something solid to hold onto and teach what tales and wonders he could.

He remembered their tweenhoods and how one summer Sam had grown up all at once, and how surprised Frodo had been on one sweltering summer day at the market, Sam had hefted a beer barrel onto one shoulder as if it were nothing. Frodo had never thought himself much of a romantic in any capacity before, but since found himself in passing phases privately enamored with Sam's strength, as well as his shy cleverness when it came to making poetry, and how dearly he held the plants of Bag End's garden.

He remembered in some ways best and most terrible of all when Sam was caught eavesdropping by Gandalf, and sentenced to accompany him on this perilous journey, and how he'd burst into tears to hear he'd see Elves. Frodo realized it was then that he had first properly loved Sam, in a quantifiable way more than a friend. But how much more, he could not have said, for his love was born from honor due to Sam's loyalty, that spanned from here at the world's end all the way back to the Shire.

He remembered that afternoon with the strawberries, and the way Sam had looked and felt when they touched – so fleetingly, it seemed – and the taste of those sweet, unseasonable strawberries and the cream Sam had beaten. It had all been love, somehow, and love ever since, and Frodo's heart was pierced with grief that he could only cherish it now.

Sam's loyalty and fierce care and protectiveness had all been born of love, and Frodo realized it had grown ever-stronger each step they grew from the Shire; every touch of hand, every kiss, the stew, coming to his aid and holding him so close in Cirith Ungol, and... and standing with him now, and holding his hand, at the end of the world.

Frodo's parched throat convulsed and words came faster than the fall of the tears he wished he could shed. “Because you are beautiful, Sam. And always have been.” he did not stop to hear the words Sam tried to interject. “I remember; I remember the Shire, and the rivers and the grass and the flowers, and the sky and the stars, and I remember Bilbo and the Gaffer and the Cottons, I remember their touch and sound, and I remember mushrooms and beer and wine, and strawberries with cream.” He struggled through a dry sob. “I remember their taste on your fingers and how much you've done for and mean to me.

“I remember how much I've cared for you, and realize now how much I've loved you, and the only regret I have leaving this world at your side, is I never said before, or enough.” He held Sam's hands now in both of his own, fiercely tight, and against his chest. “I love you, Samwise.”

The shock on Sam's face was so endearing and soft, it had no place in this crumbling realm. His mouth hung open and he struggled for words, his forehead wrinkling until he looked so desperate and sad Frodo's heart broke, and then, he simply said, “I love you too.”

Frodo gasped, a burden even greater than the Ring lifted from his heart, and he laughed in joy and love and grief. For a moment looked at Sam's ash-stained cheeks and his knotted hair that once gleamed like barely in the sunlight, and his brown, gold-and-green flecked eyes. His eyes were filled with a love and tenderness Frodo did not think he could ever become worthy of in a thousand lifetimes effort. But he decided, in this one, and its final moments, he would try anyway.

There foreheads nearly touching for their closeness already, Frodo raised his unmaimed hand to Sam's cheek, tangled his fingers in Sam's hair, and pulled him close. Their lips were chapped and cracked, rough to even one another's touch, but that meant nothing. One of Sam's hands released Frodo's and wrapped around his back, pulling him crushingly hard against him, and yet still not close enough for Frodo, whose arm encircled Sam's neck as they continued to kiss, roughly and yet desperate and wanting.

But in a moment there was a sudden softness to their touch. It had a taste, Frodo realized, and it was salty. It wet their lips and made these last moments together infinitely softer and dearer as they dared a lick or touch of tongues, and Frodo realized they were both crying.

Their final kiss as they sank to their knees on this last island surrounded by flows of molten rock, was gentle and chaste, and Frodo cupped Sam's cheek in one hand and held the other against his chest. “My dearest Sam.” a final tear fell from his lashes. “I'm glad to be with you, my love.”

“And I with you,” Sam hesitated for a moment, “Frodo-love.”

~

The air was clear and sweet, and he thought that was wrong. It confused him, and he shifted, and felt that what was beneath him was soft. That wasn't right either; it... it ought to be stone. Hot and broken and- … unless he was dead.

He was still. _I died._ he thought. _But my task was done, and... Sam. … I wish... I wish he were safe._ Frodo had never much wondered what the afterlife would be like. He knew for the Elves there were the Halls of Mandos in the Uttermost West, but he didn't know if mortals were allowed to go there. And he imagined it was a tall and imposing place, like he'd always imagined Dwarvish cities would be.

The air smelled of flowers, and it didn't hurt to breathe.

Perhaps it wasn't so bad here, wherever it was.

“Good morning.” Frodo remained still, except his eyebrows knit. That was surely a real voice, and one he hadn't made up. “Good morning,” the voice said again, and if he hadn't been certain before, Frodo was now, that he was dead.

He opened his eyes, and above him golden sunlight filtered through a canopy of shifting leaves and branches of beech trees. “_Good morning,_” the voice said for a third time, seeming to be growing impatient.

Wondering why in the world anyone would be impatient in the afterlife, Frodo raised his head. He saw, sitting not far from the right side of his bed – and he was in a bed – was the owner of the voice and impatient 'good morning's.

Gandalf.

Gandalf who fell in the deep dark of Khazad-dûm, and died fighting the Balrog to cover the Fellowship's escape.

But his beard and hair were no longer grey; they were white like his robes, and he had no hat.

Frodo was reminded strongly of Rivendell, and there was joy and relief in his heart. Gandalf was here, and that meant everything was all right; even if they were dead.

“What do you mean?” Frodo asked, completely unable to hold back a smile. Do you wish me-”

“Now don't you start.” Gandalf scowled and grumbled in the most wonderfully, endearing old-wizard type way, before the creases of his forehead eased, and he beamed and laughed. “Oh, my dear Frodo! I mean everything at once. I wish you a good morning, it _is_ a good morning, and a morning to be good on. Blast old dear old Bilbo and that book of his.

“Good morning, my lad.”

“Good morning, Gandalf.” It was curious how real this laughter felt and how genuine his joy. Frodo had always imagined being dead would include rather fewer sensations. “Won't you tell me _what _morning it is?”

Gandalf cleared his throat. “It is the morning of April the 8th by the Shire Reckoning, if you want to know. Or, the fourteenth day of the New Year, as far as the wider world is concerned. How do you feel?”

Frodo faltered, his joy visibly turning to confusion. He supposed there was no reason the Halls of Mandos or wherever they were wouldn't have an accurate calendar, but he would've imagine his death had been... some time ago. “Does it matter?” he asked suspiciously. “I'm dead.”

To Frodo's indignation, Gandalf laughed again. “Frodo, you're not dead. For that matter, neither am I!”

“Well, however is that so?!” Frodo asked, feeling all of a sudden both terrified and overjoyed. He was still alive. The world was still here. There was the Shire. Home. … Sam?

At this question, Gandalf sobered somewhat. “It is... rather complicated. For myself, I did perish after I threw down my foe, but I was sent back, greater in power than I was before. I am no longer Gandalf the Grey; I am Gandalf the White. Saruman,” the wizard sighed, “Saruman, as he should have been.” This was rather unsatisfactory for Frodo, but Gandalf didn't stop for him to ask a question. “As for you, another lengthy matter; too much for this very moment, but do you recall the Great Eagles of the Misty Mountains?”  
“I would be rather hard-pressed not to, Gandalf.”

“Ah, good. Well, as you and Sam were... nearing the end of your journey, Aragorn and the rest of us had a situation not unlike the Battle of the Five Armies. Gwaihir the Windlord and his brethren came again in our hour of need, and when the battle was done, I asked for his aid. He and his kin rendered it, and with a swiftness greater than the Four Winds combined, we flew into the ruins of Mordor and rescued you two.”

A great skepticism still pervaded Frodo's reception of this answer, but the very end of it caught his attention. “Two?” he asked, not even very directly at Gandalf. More, to himself.

He turned his head, and to his left there was a second bed identical to his own, save for the one that lay there. Sam's hair had been brushed and washed, and gleamed like spun gold as it had once lifetimes ago. His chest rose and fell in a slow, rhythmic pace, and he looked at peace.

“We're alive.” Frodo, having shifted himself to sit up, and then turned a little on his side, extended a his right hand – the one, he noticed, not wrapped in bandages – but stopped it midway between the space that lay between them. “We're not dead.”

“No, indeed not.” Gandalf confirmed, though the fact by now was rather self-evident. “For several reasons a return to Minas Tirith would be difficult at the moment. We are on the Field of Cormallen, not so far from Ithilien, where you met Faramir. Aragorn has been here, and taken remarkable care of both you and Sam.”

“We're... healed?” Frodo asked, having only caught parts of that explanation, being entirely too preoccupied with Sam, and thoughts relating to him.

An answer was not immediately given, though Frodo took little notice. “As much as may be, for now. But there is still much time and work to be done.”

“He will wake up, then?”

“Oh, yes, of course. In a short while, I should think, seeing as you're already up. … Until then, I don't doubt he would enjoy your company. There will be much celebrating to come, but not for some time yet.”

Frodo did not acknowledge Gandalf's departure from the little wooded glen, and sat looking at Sam's sleeping form for several minutes. At the end of them, he slowly, carefully shifted the blankets off of himself, marveling at the simultaneous strength and soreness he felt, and slid his feet to the ground. The grass was soft and green, and little purple flowers clustered in patches across it. He stood, and took a shaking step to the side of Sam's bed.

He leaned against it, fascinated by the play of light across Sam's soft and handsome features, and how his hair glinted in the sunlight. “Sam?” Frodo asked softly. His reply was a quiet snore.

With as much gentle caution as he'd exercised thus far, Frodo lifted himself onto the bed, and took one of Sam's hands – which lay on the coverlet – in his own. He realized his left did not hurt, but knowing what lay beneath the veneer of white bandages nearly made him sick, with disgust and shame.

“Sam.” he said again, taking a long breath. “I hope I know better what to say when you wake up.” he paused, hoping perhaps Sam might do just that right now, and he did not. “As it is... I... I'm sorry, for everything you had to go through because of me. You deserve far better than anything I have caused you. You deserve better than me.

“... But in spite of that, our final words... there,” he had no strength in his head to name the Land of Shadows, “I meant every one of them. Selfishly, I love you so, though I am undeserving.

“You were the one thing that remained a light when I was overcome by darkness, and without you I would not have made it nearly as far as we did. … I thank you, with the whole of my heart, for everything you did for me. I would have spared you of it if I could, but... I am happy to have spoken my heart, and... indeed that I have lived to see you have done the same.” He waited, for the flutter of an eyelid or a twitch of Sam's nose, and there was nothing. “My Sam.” He leaned forward, and with a butterfly-light touch, cupped Sam's cheek. He felt tears well up in his eyes, and with no great effort they fell down his cheeks. “I love you terribly.”

He leaned further, and placed a gentle, damp kiss to Sam's lips. Then he rose, releasing Sam's hand back to the coverlet, before withdrawing – he felt respectfully – to his own bed, and falling back to the thoughtless dark of sleep.

It remained neither dark nor thoughtless for very long, as far as he could tell, for suddenly Sam and Gandalf's voices were in his ears, and without opening his eyes he smiled, eavesdropping in his own way as Sam came to wakefulness, and asked if he was all right, aside from his hand.

“Yes, I should say so, if not bored to sleep.” he laughed, opening his eyes and offering a concerned Sam a genuine smile. “Don't you know Gandalf and I had a full conversation this morning just next to you? And you didn't stir a bit! I fell back asleep while I waited for you, and I would say now it must be nearly noon.”

Sam's sweet face was overcome with pink. “Aye, it weren't my meaning.” he said, ducking his head hastily. “If I'd a' known you was up already, I would've gotten up in a flash, an' no mistake!”

Gandalf rumbled a laugh. “No doubt, Sam. And you have rested for as long as you need to; long enough to be ready to meet the King. Today marks an important day for you all – April the 8th as your calendar would say, but a fortnight into the New Year of Gondor.”

“The King? Of Gondor?” asked Sam, slowly connecting dots. “But there ain't a King.”

“No, not precisely yet, anyway. But he will be crowned soon; before then, you shall meet him, and dine with him at a great feast.”

“Not, I expect,” said Frodo, sitting up and hugging his knees, “in our night gowns?”

There was something wonderfully warm and reassuring in Gandalf's laughter. “No, Frodo. First you shall wash and eat, and then if you are ready, I will lead you to finery suitable of your ranks and presence before the King.”

Frodo and Sam shared surprised glances at the mention of their supposed ranks, but Gandalf vanished from the grove before either had a chance to ask. He returned shortly carrying two plates of food and utensils – and more, which distracted the hobbits from other questions. “How...” Frodo began softly, as Gandalf set down the food and extended a hand to each hobbit. To Frodo, he held the Phial of Galadriel, and to Sam he offered the box of earth she'd given him.

“Sam held onto them faithfully, and we found them on him after your rescue.” Gandalf said. “May their return ease and lighten your hearts.”

Frodo could feel another surge of tears not far off as he held the star-glass in his hand once more. “Yes. Thank you, Gandalf.”

“Thank'ee, Sir.” Sam echoed, holding the box to his chest.

The wizard waved a hand. “Eat now, my friends. The day is young, yet, and there is much to do.”

So the hobbits ate, in a quiet and companionable silence, neither feeling a great need to say anything – or perhaps too scared to – until Frodo spoke. “Thank you.” he said, glancing himself shyly to Sam. “For everything.”

Sam seemed taken aback by this, but replied with the sincerity and gravity of the world. “I'd do it all again an' more for you.”

Frodo tried and failed not to sniffle. “I know.” he replied softly.

They finished soon after, and followed Gandalf to a tent not far from the grove, where they were able to wash with basins and towels, and to them were presented finery Frodo felt unworthy of, even his _mithril _shirt.

But after they were dressed and their swords girted, Gandalf rose to place a circlet of silver upon each of their bowed heads. “My dear hobbits,” he said, looking down on them with pride Frodo felt abashed to see, “there is much you have done for this world, and I fear neither this day nor a hundred like it would be able to express the honor you deserve for your actions.”

Frodo met his gaze with some private discomfort. “They were all things that must have been done by someone. It was by chance that we were they.”

“And the deeds would be no less honorable if done by another hand.”

Those words gave Frodo a great deal to consider, even as he and Sam were brought before the Aragorn the King, and set upon his high throne, and wept through the telling of _Frodo of the Nine Fingers and the Ring of Doom. _Sitting together on that great but otherwise lonely seat, Frodo and Sam held hands with iron grasps as they shared tears through the lay. Frodo was delighted Sam's long-thought dream had come true at last, but he felt unworthy to be hailed thrice and again by these high and mighty Men.

He was given little rest between then and the great feast that began after the sun had fallen from its peak and the shadows began to lengthen, but he was grateful for the brief time Gandalf pulled them aside and allowed them a moment to sit, and breathe, and sip a bit of water.

Then it was to the King's table, with Aragorn, Gimli and Legolas, and the high Lords of Rohan and Dol Amroth. They and all others on the field of feast and celebration stood briefly in a respectful silence, after which Frodo and Sam made the delightful discovery of which squires exactly were serving them wine. Frodo privately promised himself he would give Merry and Pippin both a clout on the ear and a terrible hug for whatever messes they must've gotten themselves into to be in such fine raiment.

The feast began, and to Frodo it seemed there was both much talk and little. He and Sam were much included in the conversation, and asked often by the Lords or their friends of their journeys or of home, but he noticed few words were spoken between himself and Sam. He realized, since sitting upon the King's throne, Sam had grown quieter and more distant, and Frodo wondered if it were the overwhelming aura of the feast.

Once, thinking it wouldn't necessarily be out of place for what had... recently been exchanged between them, Frodo placed his hand on Sam's beneath the table, and to his pain, Sam flinched and grew still. Frodo had withdrawn his hand and offered a quiet but sincere apology, and the rest of his appetite was spoiled.

Desserts seemed to appear in intermittent waves, and Frodo had enjoyed what he could picking at this or that, but his attention was taken far and away from food when one particular dish came out. It was a cake – a very beautiful one at that – with a vanilla sponge, Frodo assumed, and decorated lavishly with strawberries and cream.

A slice was put before Sam, and he made a choked noise, before covering his mouth with his hand and offering a rushed apology to the nearest noble – which was Gandalf – as he rose and hurried out of the pavilion. Frodo felt a sinking feeling in his stomach, and raised a hand to stop Gandalf rising, as Frodo excused himself and hurried after Sam.

Failing sunlight glinted off his new gilded mail as Sam rushed back to the tent where they had changed earlier that day. Frodo did not call out, but hurried after him, and only slowed once Sam entered the tent.

As he drew near, he realized he heard Sam sobbing. He stopped at the entrance to the tent, wondering what in the world he could say. “Sam?” he managed eventually, pressing his hand against the flap and pushing it open.

The sobbing stopped abruptly, and Frodo saw Sam rise from the ground and fervently rub his cheeks with his sleeve. “Sir.” he choked. That word struck Frodo with a great chill.

“Are you all right? You left... in a hurry.”

“I'm fine.” Sam nodded vigorously and sniffled, wiping his cheeks again.

Frodo stared at him and his unconvincing smile. “It was the strawberry cake.” Sam's smile quavered and a fat tear rolled down his cheek. “... I... … I think we need to talk.”

Sam burst into tears again. “You could've said!” he cried, his words garbled as he wept. “You only said it there, in than horrid place!”

Sam's tears were infectious, and Frodo's frayed nerves stood no chance of holding it together. “Sam, I don't understand-”

For a long moment Sam remained inconsolable and incomprehensible, but he didn't shy away as Frodo approached and placed a tentative hand on my arm. “There was so much time!” he sobbed, “An' only in Mordor did it mean a thing!”

“SAM!” Frodo hadn't meant to shout, but the mention of Mordor by name touched a nerve, and Sam quieted and stilled as if he'd been struck. “I'm sorry,” Frodo hastened to soothe, and offered his other, bandaged hand, “I'm sorry. Please take a breath; I want to understand, but you're going to fast for me.”

The gardener sniffled, and ran his sleeve across one cheek, eyeing Frodo with a heartrending mix of fear and mistrust. “We barely said a word all day. We done said a lot more... more _there_, than here, of all places.”

“What do you want to be said?” the question was gentle and sincere.

Sam's gaze shifted uncomfortably. “... I.” suddenly he looked guilty. “I'm out of place.”

“No, no- never. Not now, not ever.” Frodo squared himself, feeling a bit stern of a sudden. “I've made you upset and I want to know what I did so I can amend it. You're never out of place to tell me that.”

It took another minute of Frodo's stern gaze before Sam broke down. “You said you loved me, but only once ever, an' just afore we was about to die.”

A lump grew in Frodo's throat. “Yes... I-”

“You said it once an' fer the whole of today I ain't had a clue if you been meanin' it, or- or it was just one of them things, you know, that folk talk about, sayin' stuff they don't mean just afore- 'cause time's runnin' out an' it's an _impulse_, but- not... not _real_.

“I... I'd hoped awful much you'd've said when we et on the beds – maybe tell me I hadn't dreamed it – an' then after I started gettin' worried, an' then the feast started, an' I felt I done vanished. I... I'd thought, at the last... _there_, maybe if we woke up together, we... I don't know.

“I... I just been thinkin' this whole day mayhap it were sommat you didn't want to never talk about again, an'- an' I were just supposed to forget.” he sobbed again, and hid his face in his hands as his tears came anew. “I said it twice an' only once to you, Sir, but your Sam loves you so, an' he's a fool an' couldn't help it even if he wanted to. He's a ninnyhammer to hope you love him too, but he does, an' his head's full a' wool for it.”

Through his tears, Frodo sighed in great relief. “Dear Sam,” he laughed as a tear dripped off the tip of his nose, “dearest Sam, I'm sorry for scaring you so. All of that's weighed so heavily on my mind as well, and made me too scared to say a word. As though when we awoke there was a balanced scale between us, and if I spoke I'd upset it and both of us.

“... I'm afraid I did so anyway, though this wasn't my intent at all.” Sam's tears quieted again, and he regarded Frodo with cautious curiosity. “I do want to talk, and... I had hoped to today, but after I awoke this morning and fell asleep again, the day picked up and I feel there's hardly been a moment's rest. I... I did speak earlier, while you were asleep, because I was afraid, but I should have repeated myself, I think; perhaps indeed while we ate in the grove.

“I'm sorry.” Tenderly, Frodo reached for Sam's hands again, and was allowed to take them without resistance. He forced his gaze to meet Sam's, and though his heart pounded hard, he felt the better for it. “What I said... there, _was_ impulsive, but it was no less sincere for that. … I do love you, Samwise. I think, perhaps... selfishly, and that most every creature above me is more worthy of you, but it is with the whole of my heart, such as it is. … I think I have for a long time, throughout this grim adventure and all of your sweet care in spite of it, but it was only then that I realized it fully, and had the mind to say it. Greatly, indeed, as I feared I would never have the chance otherwise.”

Sam's grip on Frodo's hands tightened incredibly as Frodo professed his love, to the point where Frodo cringed at the pressure on his injured hand, which prompted Sam to slacken his grip and bring Frodo's hands to his face, which were damp again with more tears. “I'm sorry, too. I'm awful sorry; I... I've been a ninnyhammer. But- you ain't unworthy in the least! It don't take no Elvish princess or somesuch for me. Why, _you's_ the one above _me_, an' as such I oughta be sayin' them things.

“... But mayhap neither of us ought. … Thank you, for... for sayin' all that, an'... makin' me see sense.”

“Given freely, with my honor.” Frodo replied, feeling a tentative smile growing. “My honor, and my love.”

Sam hiccuped, and placed a shy kiss on Frodo's knuckles. “We can say such, now?”

“I'd like to, among lots of things.”

“... What sorts of things?”

When Frodo laughed, it felt his heart was finally no longer being squeezed. “Well, do you like being kissed by people in love with you?”

Sam looked at him with large eyes, and Frodo smirked at the cheek his gardener was brave enough to give him. “Don't think I can know awful well if it's only happened once, Sir.”

“We can see if you like it a second time, on the condition you start calling me 'Frodo' now. No more Mr. or Sir or Master.”

His gardener looked stricken, and his throat bobbed as though Frodo had just questioned an inextricable part of his existence. But he opened his mouth, and said, “Frodo.”

It was a very sweet sound; sweeter than any Elvish music Frodo had ever heard. Almost as sweet as kissing Sam, which he did then, as he promised.

They returned to the feast shortly after, having made use again of the wash-basins and cloths to freshen their faces, and Frodo felt far merrier and suited for a party than he had for the prior part of the day. Sam's voice grew stronger at the table, and they spoke and laughed together where they could, and with their Lords and friends, and nearly the whole while, they held hands under the table.

The day drew finally to a close, and they spent it in peace and perhaps even more merriment with their friends. If Merry and Pippin noticed the change between them – which Frodo supposed they must, knowing them – they said nothing, and spent much and more time talking proudly of their exploits. They listened in wonder and joy to Legolas and Gimli's accounts of their own travels, and their delightful but frustrating reunions with Merry and Pippin, and Frodo was struck with a sudden memory when Legolas began to sing of the Sea. But it was only the taste of salt he remembered, and Sam had tasted just the same both times they had kissed.

At the last as the stars gleamed high and bright above them, and the Star of Eärendil seemed to glow with particular vigor, Gandalf game to them in the glade, and announced it was time again to rest. Frodo and Sam parted from their friends to follow Gandalf, glad to have had so much time together, and glad to have more on the morrow, but gladdest of all they were to rest now.

They returned to the beech grove, to find a tent had been erected over their beds. “Rest as long as you will, my friends.” Gandalf bid them at its door. “There are changes of clothes within, and water for washing. Call when you're ready for breakfast, and it will be brought.”

As he turned to go, Frodo stopped him with a few words. “Thank you, Gandalf. For everything.”

The wizard turned back to them, and there was a shine like starlight in his eyes. “Thank _you_, Frodo and Samwise. Goodnight.” and he disappeared between the swaying boughs.

After watching the place he had been for several heartbeats, Frodo turned away, and took Sam's hand in his. “Ready?”

Sam titled his head upwards, to the pinpricks of stars one could occasionally see through the leaves, before he returned to earth, and Frodo. “Aye.”

They entered the tent, and the flap swished closed quietly behind them. As Gandalf had promised, to one corner stood a pair of basins, with pitchers and towels aplenty, and at least two sets of clothes for them each. A lamp burned near at hand. In the center of the tent, stood no longer two beds, but one, which was made, and the plush pillows and coverlet looked more inviting than Frodo could say. Nevertheless, his head turned slightly as if to look again after Gandalf. “Do you suppose...?”

Sam was once again flushed. “Awful presumptuous, wizards...”

“But... perhaps not wrong in their presumptions?” Frodo carefully lifted the circlet from his head as he waited for Sam's answer.

“... Iffin' the lane goes both ways,” he replied, carefully.

“... It goes one way, at least,” said Frodo, too frightened to look at Sam as he walked to the basins and set his circlet on one of the stools, “I think... not tonight – I'm much too tired – but... I would like it, sometime after.” he watched Sam from the corner of his eye.

“... It goes two ways.” the gardener's voice was shaking. “An'- aye, not tonight. But... sometime after.”

Frodo sighed like a quiet bellows. “I'm glad.”

“An' me as well.”

They did not meet one another's gaze for several minutes as they carefully began to disrobe themselves and wash quickly, setting the day's things carefully to one side, while they designated another spot nearer the bed for their treasures. “Will you keep your mail, Sam?” asked Frodo, as he pulled his night gown on. “It... it compliments mine prettily, gold and silver.”

“I'd like to, if they let me.” Sam, arguably less the worse for wear than Frodo, was already dressed for bed, and sitting on the edge of it the lantern near. “It is awful fair, an' as you said, makes a fine pair wi' yours.”

“I wonder what Bilbo will say when he sees us.” Frodo murmured, now dressed, and moved to sit heavily on the bed.

“I'm hopin' that we make a fine pair,” said Sam, as Frodo leaned heavily against him, and he wrapped an arm around Frodo, “an'... he don't mind.”

“I don't think he will,” Frodo smiled as he felt a kiss placed on top of his head, “he's never had common taste, and I believe he's always wanted those dear to him to be happy.”

“Aye,” Sam agreed, before they both shifted, Sam blew out the lamp, and they and drew back the covers, and slowly – and a bit shyly – lay down. “Do you remember,” Sam asked of the dark, “some of the nights, when... when we lay close?”

“Would you like to again?”

“If you would.”

“I would.”

The blankets and covers rustled, and shortly they lay not unlike a pair of kittens on their sides, Frodo's back to Sam's front, the latter's arm draped around the middle of the former. “But now I can't kiss you so easily,” said Frodo after they had settled, and thus spent just a bit more fuss to roll onto his other side to face Sam, who was chuckling. “Much better,” and he interrupted Sam's laughter by placing a kiss on his nose.

“It is, at that,” and Sam returned the kiss.

“... I do love you, Sam. I must say it often for all the times I haven't.”

“I love you as well. Frodo. An' I've got to say it at least as much.”

“I think we'll do well with reminding each other.”

“Mm.”

In the dark they nuzzled closer, smiling and nearly laughing to themselves, before kissing lightly on the lips. Frodo soon fell asleep with that as his chief memory, and the cozy warmth of Sam's arm around him and being held so near and dear.


	3. Chapter 3

What Frodo thought he ought to be feeling and what he really felt were a difficult pair of concepts to juggle. In his farthest-flung fantasies today would be the brightest and cheerful he had known for a year.

In reality, though he was excited and a bit giddy, he felt a weight pressing on his heart and an itch of anxiety tingled his skin. Long ago he had wished the journey home would be free of any memory of the Quest, and his hopes had been shattered to learn that would not and never be so. Rebuilding hope was very difficult, he found.

Not everything had been bad, of course. The death of one of Gandalf's peers before his eyes had been striking and sad, and he mourned he had been unable to persuade Grima to mercy and pity. Cleaning up the Shire afterwards had been no small task, and Frodo had privately marveled how many different ways his heart could break to see the land torn asunder, or the weary eyes of his old friends released from the Lockholes to see their first light of day in weeks.

He would've said once he didn't want to raise another hand in anyone's affairs for the rest of his life, but Will had been in no state to oversee the reconstruction of the Shire, and his friends had unanimously agreed Frodo was the best for the job. It involved too much paperwork and talking for hours on end about money and debts and organizing contractors, but it was well on its way.

Frodo was grateful the Cottons had allowed him to stay with them, and make an untidy, paper-lined burrow of their guest room for many months. He smiled faintly to himself at this, as he presently tried to rein in Heruin, his pony, from picking up a trot as they approached the base of the Hill.

He was still a bit uneasy, not knowing if the Cottons had figured out the current state of affairs between him and Sam, and what an unmarried couple had done beneath their roof.

Cormallen had been gentle and sweet for many days as they stole private moments to kiss and express their feelings – well away from the eyes of their friends, Frodo valuing their privacy and wanting time and space to sort out what they wanted. Before Aragorn's coronation, Frodo and Sam had agreed on what they wanted, but for the sake of creating the sweetest memory they could, they decided to wait until they returned home before doing more than cuddle and kiss.

Some of the words of Arwen, Galadriel and Gandalf in the following months in the White City made Frodo fear how long he might have in his home, while others kindled a faint hope that with effort, he might never see the Sea.

Regardless of what the future had held, then, it had been bliss to have Sam at his side on the journey home. He was incredibly grateful to meet again with Merry and Pippin and all the rest of their friends, and to find their bonds of kin and friendship were still strong, yet if Sam had not been there to hold and be held by Frodo in the night, Frodo feared his heart might have broken. They still did not announce anything to their companions, though they were left free of questions when they awoke late some mornings, their limbs still entwined.

Frodo had hoped their first time would be gentle and sweet in the quiet coziness of Crickhollow, but Frodo's hopes for that had dwindled and died by the time they arrived at the gate of Buckland. Then there was no time to think of himself or what he wanted anymore – for the second time – and he found his world had unraveled while he was away, and his hands were among the few that could put it back to order.

The Cottons again had been supremely generous in giving Frodo use of their spare room, and for a time Sam shared it with him. It was a few days after the Lockholes had been emptied and they were drying from a bath in the room, curled together on the bed and reading one of Bilbo's old books that had been saved from Bag End. Somewhere in that evening they'd begun to kiss sleepily, until their kisses woke them up and became harder and needier, and soon Sam was on his back and pulling Frodo down on top of him.

“Sam-love-” Frodo had broken off, breathless, pulling away in hopes of controlling himself, though Sam had never looked so beautiful with his eyes bright and full of love and desire, his straw-colored hair tousled and his lips swollen from kisses, “I-”

Sam blushed, the color of a strawberry, and if Frodo had any real resistances, they melted at the sight. “I- I been thinkin', we- we could save bein' inside each other proper, for home,” these words touched Frodo, that Sam would consider Bag End when it was rebuilt, his home, “an'- an' until then, we could just... touch, mayhap even wi' our mouths...?”

Frodo balanced himself by holding his hands on Sam's chest, and he felt Sam's chest heaving, and the shape of his nipples beneath the thin nightgown. “My dear Samwise, you are the cleverest hobbit I know.” and he bent down and kissed Sam, hard.

He still remembered with exceptional delight what it was like to hold Sam that first time, and feel him get harder and harder still before he began to convulse and release. They'd had to scramble for adequate towels to dry the evidence of their pleasure before it hit the covers, but after they collapsed in a tangled and sleepy heap. Sam's cheeks were still strawberry red with exertion, and his hair damp with sweat, while Frodo was nestled next to him and idly stroking his cheek. “I do love you so, my dear Sam... my dear,” he said, his words trailing with distance before he turned his head to look at Sam, and chuckled, “my dear... hm, strawbaby.”

Sam, who had begun to fall into a contented doze looking at Frodo, perked up, and his face flushed further. “Eh?”

Frodo hadn't even realized that was the first time he'd laughed with genuine lightheartedness in weeks. “A pet name, if you could stand it. Your hair is golden like straw, and you turn as red as a strawberry when you blush. I think they – and strawberries – are quite sweet.”

“Hm,” Sam nuzzled Frodo's bare shoulder, a bit abashed. “You're the sweet one. T'isn't a name I want anybody else callin' me, but it's fairer than fair comin' from you. … Mayhap a might silly, but... I like it.”

Frodo stretched just a bit to kiss his cheek and ruffle his hair, and Sam inclined his head so they could share a nuzzle. “My dear strawbaby. … I'm very happy I'm in love with you.” Suddenly there had been a world more he'd wanted to say, but in the dark he saw Sam smile, and felt a warm kiss pressed to his lips.

“The very same's made me one o' the happiest hobbits I ever did know. I love you, Frodo.”

“And I love you, Samwise.”

They kissed for a little longer, until they fell asleep, and Frodo's dreams knew no darkness that night.

The weeks that followed had been less than blissful after, for it was agreed it was time to put Lady Galadriel's gift to use, and Sam began to go away on his forestry work. Hope grew anew in Frodo's heart to see in even in the earliest days of spring life grow back in place of what had been taken in the Shire, and in January he received a visit from a Dwarf on behalf of Gandalf, with a plant and a letter explaining what the wizard hoped would be a useful medicine to combat Frodo's ills. The leaves from the plant could be steeped to make a tea, the smell and taste of which reminded Frodo much of _aethelas_, and privately Frodo felt a tremble of excitement that yes, it did make him – especially his shoulder, which ached sometimes in the cold – feel better.

Though Sam was often away, he and Frodo had come to the agreement that Frodo would not be holed up at the Cottons' all the while, and as best he could he would set aside time from his paperwork to get in touch with his old friends. Frodo regretted now how much of a curmudgeon he'd been about it at the start, citing he had far too much to do as Deputy Mayor, but now he was very glad to have done as Sam had asked. His friendship with Folco and Fatty had been rekindled, and he even got on more companionably with Lobelia, regardless of her returning Bag End to him.

Subsequently, Sam hadn't been away all the time – he came back quite often to oversee work on the New Row and Bag End, and for a long while stayed with Frodo at the Cottons. There had been one time they'd been quite confident they had the farmhouse to themselves – the family was either out in the fields or at the market – and with too much bravado they'd begun to kiss and caress in the hall, to nearly leap from their skins when Nibs called in from the kitchen door if Sam could help them in the field. Sam called back they'd he'd be there in a minute, but decided rather before Frodo could say a word himself, he couldn't leave at that very moment.

Somehow they'd stumbled into the hall closet and knocked into the coats and other things stored there, and Sam had kept kissing him, down his cheek and neck, and down further still until Sam was on his knees and Frodo felt his breeches being unbuttoned. “This is a long minute,” he observed, but did not complain.

“Aye, an' it'll be longer still for you if I left just now,” and his fingers pressed lightly on the sensitive bulge in Frodo's trousers.

“And what about you, then?”

“I'll make do,” he said, to which Frodo had no answer but a moan he struggled to muffle, as Sam slid his trousers from his hips, and Frodo's swollen member was captured in the wet, velvety heat of Sam's mouth.

Frodo was left a trembling mess barely able to stand on his feet after he spilled, and Sam wiped his lips and stood to kiss him before he hurried out the door, promising Frodo they'd pick up later, and Frodo stuck his head out the closet to watch Sam walk with a hurried, jerking gate out the kitchen door. “Silly,” Frodo had murmured. “silly dear.”

They had picked up where they'd left off that night, and Sam confessed it had been a small agony for him to be stuck out in the fields and necessarily discreet about the state he'd left Frodo in. Frodo had returned the favor from the closet quite expertly, and Sam hid his moans in his forearm as he came.

Frodo's gaze cleared briefly of memories, and focused again on the road ahead. Next to him as he rode Heruin, Bill the pony nickered and swished his tail in annoyance at a particularly insistent fly. “Blighters,” Sam muttered, swiping out at the bug when he saw it, “too early for 'em.”

“I'm sure the birds and spiders will be happy to see them, at least.” They were passing Number Three now as the top of the Hill grew closer, and Frodo's heart began to beat faster. It hadn't been that long ago the New Row had been finished, and the Gamgees had been able to move back in – all of them. Frodo had been welcomed to stay with them intermittently, which once Frodo would have been surprised but honored by, had it not been for the housewarming dinner they'd invited him to, once its restoration had been finished.

That had been the night the Gaffer had approached Frodo on his feelings for Sam, and Frodo had answered as honestly as he could. The evening had been filled with Frodo and Sam regaling the family of their adventures and the feats of one another, until it had worn down and the Gaffer had invited Frodo outside to smoke.

“... If I might be so bold, Sir, where will all this lead? I ain't never heard another two hobbits talk about each other so, if you'll pardon me,” he had asked, lighting his pipe.

“... I hope someday soon to ask him a question,” Frodo had said, after a long time. “And that he will give the answer he wants. I hope also, of course, he will answer with what would make me happiest, but I _want _him to answer with what he truly wants.” A frog began to chirp among the chorus of crickets around them, and went uninterrupted for some time. “Have I your permission to ask him that question, Master Hamfast?”

“... On the very terms you been holdin' yerself to all along, that you don't go forcin' him to do as he don't want.”

“I will see Sam is never left in pain or wanting because of me, and will spend my last breath to ensure his safety and happiness.”

“... Then I ask one more thing of you, Master Frodo.”

“I will deliver it as best I can.”

“... I'm not thinkin' I really need to ask, hearin' how you two go on talkin' an' how you look at each other, an' touch hands when you think no one's lookin'. But- my lad, Sir. My Sam. You do love him?”

There wasn't a moment's hesitation. “Yes. Of a measure that I would walk to the end of the world and back again and again if it meant the smallest thing of happiness or care to him.”

Hamfast Gamgee nodded, and stared for a little while into the back garden, before he coughed, and rose from his seat. “Then, yes, Sir. Make the best home for him as you can.” He nodded again, perhaps more to himself than Frodo, and turned to go in. But before he did, he had placed a tentative hand on his shoulder. “When- when you first come to the Hill, when Bell was still alive... it weren't our place, but, well, she an' I- we felt a bit... like you was family, bein' as close as you were with ol' Master Bilbo, an' in turn to open wi' us. … You was so polite an' kind, and Bilbo called on us often enough for a bit o' help here an' there, sometimes we joked to ourselves you was a new lad come into the family.” He clapped Frodo's shoulder properly, now. “Beggin' your pardon for our thoughts as they were, but I don't feel it wrong to say, proper-like now: welcome to the family, Master Frodo.”

Those memories swirling in his mind and holding his heart in a meaningful grasp, Frodo's attention was only drawn back more heartily to the present as he took note at last of the old oak tree rising from the roof of Bag End. It had been half a year since he'd seen it last – it hadn't been cut down like the poor Party Tree, but it had grown withered and bent, no doubt from Saruman's wicked mischief. But Sam had offered a precious grain of dirt from the box Galadriel had given him, and planted it among the old tree's roots, and now Frodo's spirits rose to see the tree now standing tall and strong again. Bursts of green covered its branches as new leaves began to grow, and birds flittered and fluttered about it.

Frodo and Sam, themselves and their ponies laden both with the last of their things from the Cottons' or Number Three, turned down the path that lead to the stables nestled round the back of the hill, just beneath Bag End. As he considered what would have to be brought up by hand to the smial, Frodo wondered about a package he did not have with him, and hoped it was in the smial as it ought to be.

“Not bad, eh?” Sam asked, rousing Frodo again from his thoughts. The path, which had become flooded and woefully muddy to pass several times over the winter, was now cut cleanly along the ground and secured on either side by a new growth of grass and young, newly-planted flowers. The stables ahead, as they rounded the corner, had also been patched and shored up after falling into neglected dilapidation, and the fences of the paddock were all mended and stood strong. “T'were a trick t'get the lads to put up the fences the very same every time, but it were worth it, in the end.”

It was not the same stable Frodo had known from years ago, but pleasant memories flooded him still to see it restored. “Yes, yes it was. Every bit.” They drew nearer the barn, Heruin beginning to plod with the prospect of being soon confined. “Thank you.”

Sam threw him a look before dismounting – a surprised one, but with a smile, as if to say, 'A task needing done don't need thanks', but he said nothing. He held Heruin still as Frodo dismounted, then handed the reins of both ponies to Frodo to open the barn door. Sam took Bill's reins and led the pony inside, and Frodo followed after with Heruin.

Both ponies studied their new surroundings with curious eyes as their baggage was unloaded and they were untacked. Frodo was quite pleased to see the tack room had been updated and very finally sorted, having known general disorder in Bilbo's keeping, which Frodo had long procrastinated on updating.

As they brushed the ponies down, Sam interrupted the quiet that had developed between them in the diligence of their work. “Mrs. Cotton said you was ill last week.”

Heruin turned to look at Frodo as best she could from her crossties, having stopped brushing her flank suddenly. “Did she?” he said more than he asked.

“Aye,” Sam reaffirmed, “an'... well, she told me what happened, an'... now I was wonderin' when you was gonna get to tellin' _me_.”

Frodo's care to free Heruin's white-spattered flanks from dust stopped being a task of precision, as he abandoned it to speed to rush to loose her from the crossties. “After the housewarming, I supposed.” They were going to have a party today, after all. Merry and Pippin were to arrive with the last of the things from Crickhollow, and Fatty and Folco would be coming to help celebrate, and... and he and Sam would be in the smial together; home, together. At last. There was no need to dampen that.

Suddenly Sam was in front of him and held one of his wrists as he went to begin untying Heruin. “Frodo,” his voice was pained, “we... we promised to talk.”

That was true. They'd made many promises since returning to the Shire, and though they'd not always been easy to keep, Frodo had done his best no matter the weight he felt dragging him down. He didn't fight Sam's gentle grasp. “Yes, yes we did. … I was afraid, and I'm sorry.”

Sam gently lifted one of the crossties and pulled Frodo out from under it, away from Heruin. “An' that's the sorta thing we promised we'd tell each other; when we was hurting, and when we was afraid, an' when we needed help.”

Sam's hold on his wrist became a hug, as Frodo buried his nose in the crook of Sam's neck, and felt all the fear and pain that had seized him the week before – starting on the 13th – come up again. He had hoped the anniversary of Weathertop would be the only annual misery he was cursed with, but it seemed not to be so as a pain took hold in his body and a shadow darker than an empty night sky filled his mind like an impenetrable fog. He had been alone, and scared, and when he could think at all, all he had wanted was Sam, who had not been there, not until the 25th, to announce Bag End was finished, and they could go home.

Frodo had asked Mrs. Cotton – who had tended to him during his illness – not to worry Sam about it, but it seemed she had. He held to Sam tightly, and felt selfish for being so broken. “I'm sorry.” he said, and then said it again as he felt tears flood his eyes. “I'm so sorry. You've been doing so much lately – so much work and healing and growth – and- and I've been a burden to you for so long, I- I wanted only once to free you of my unnecessary weight.”

Against his will, Sam pried Frodo free of his neck and held his face firmly in his strong hands. “You ain't unnecessary, an' you never been a burden.”

Frodo's voice cracked as he laughed. “Not even when you carried me up the mountain when I couldn't carry myself? When you had to ask me to walk farther from the Fire after our task was done? When you had to go without because you valued me so much more- when you entered the Tower-”

“Frodo.” The sternness in Sam's voice stopped Frodo short, as if he were a child again being reprimanded by one of his elders in Brandy Hall. “None of them things were easy, not a one. Mayhap you'll say I gave up a lot – mayhap I did – mayhap too much. That I ought not've, 'cause you wasn't worth it.

“Well, I been thinkin' about that, an' I've decided, if you'll pardon me, it's not as you that gets to decide your worth to others, includin' if you're a burden or not. S'pose you can go deciden' yourself what you's worth to you, but you've no hold on how others see you.

“Aye, Mordor an' keepin' you safe was the hardest thing I ever done. It were rough and mean and the worst time I ever known, but it weren't you that was a burden. It were that Thing, an' what we had to do wi' it, an' why, an' where we were. That were the burden – on us both. You was the only thing in that black place that done kept my head an' heart together.” Sam's thumbs swiped away the tears that fell down Frodo's cheeks. “You wasn't the burden, an' you never was. You were the thing that made it all worth it.”

Frodo shook, and cried, and Sam held him fiercely tight and wept with him until their sobs both stilled. “Oh, Sam.” Frodo breathed, raising his face from Sam's shoulder and resting his chin atop it. “I want to say I don't deserve you, but for the pains I know I've suffered I'll allow myself to be selfish. Thank you, for being you, and all you do for me.”

“It ain't selfish when all I do for you is 'cause I want to,” Sam kissed the top of his head. “An' I think the whole notion of deservin' or not is right silly, but if we're gonna play that game, there ain't a person alive I'd say is more deservin' of whatever I do, than you. 'Cause I decided I want to do for you.”

Frodo laughed softly, and for another spell they stayed standing there, releasing the last of their hurts for that time and allowing the last of their tears to fall. “Now, you are gonna tell me about these things, aye?” asked Sam as they finally stepped apart. “Me Gaffer always said that were the key about marriages; if you don't go sayin' what's the matter, soon enough you've got so much built up 'atween you, you stop talkin' all together, an' then what was the point in gettin' married? You know I'd hate callin' off the wedding.”

Another laugh escaped Frodo – this one stronger than a sigh – and he wiped the last traces of tears from his face with a sleeve. “I know, and I'd hate to as well.” he sobered, and cleared his throat. “I do promise to let you know about these illnesses. I have the uncomfortable suspicion they will be annual, but I will still tell you.”

Sam nodded, finally pleased with this agreement, and kissed Frodo's cheek before they returned to their now very bored ponies.

Sam had offered and been politely refused to take any of Frodo's belongings up to the smial. The last bags of his clothes, papers and other oddments had been too many to carry himself from the Cottons' to Bag End, but the last bit from the stable to the top of the Hill was no great trouble.

A great relief and joy came over Frodo as the familiar smial and garden became level with the road, and already he saw so much color dotted across the yard, and the grass was a beautiful green, and the door and windows veritably sparkled in their newness. Though many things had been lost, and could not truly be replaced, the bones of the smial were still the same as they had been for three generations, and to Frodo it was still home.

“I can see the love already returned to the soil,” he murmured as he and Sam briefly set their things by the door, “the garden is beautiful.”

Sam smiled, and procured a key from his pocket; shining brass, like the new doorknob. “You ain't seen even half of it yet, an' there's love abound in all the earth here.”

Frodo took the key, and admired it for a moment, before he admired Sam instead. “I know.” In his left hand, Frodo took one of Sam's, and in his right he held the key, and fitted it into the lock. The door swung open without a creak for its new hinges, and sunlight spilled golden onto the shining wood floor, around the silhouettes of two hobbits standing hand-in-hand. “Home.” said Frodo.

“Aye.”

Together, they stepped over the threshold, into their home.

As it was a housewarming party that night, food was the first requirement (possibly tied with a house in need of warming, of course). Frodo and Sam unpacked the last of their things a bit untidily (to Frodo's delight, Sam had no hesitance in sharing the closets and trunks of the master bedroom), and Frodo found the other parcel that had been delivered earlier, safe and sound, and moved it from the guest room it had been initially placed in, to a more convenient location for later.

They spoke joyfully like children in a bakery full of sweets, admiring everything that had been done to repair the smial, Frodo complimenting nearly all of it as Sam explained the work that had gone into it. Their talk made unpacking a short effort, and then they moved on to the preparations for dinner.

The two made good headway into preparations by the time Merry and Pippin arrived with the last cart from Crickhollow, and they'd picked up Fatty and Folco along the way (Frodo suspected more to have help carrying the furniture than out of simple generosity). After the furniture was unloaded and placed haphazardly at Frodo's distracted direction, the other four rolled up their sleeves and set to work helping in the kitchen, and conversation expanded greatly in all sorts of directions. Frodo thanked himself for his earlier foresight to already have prepared a special bowl of strawberries and cream that would not see use until well after dinner.

It felt like reuniting with old and dearly-loved friends as Frodo set the table with his mother's and Bilbo's fine china and crystal as he set the table. It had been nearly a year since he'd last seen them, much less used them, and this perhaps more than any other thing he'd yet done that day solidified to him that he truly was home.

Dinner was prepared swiftly and with a joyful lightness in the air as news and gossip from all Four Farthings was shared jovially, and it slowed not at all as dishes began a steady stream from the kitchen to the table. The smial grew quiet when the five gathered friends sat at last down at the dining table to eat, and Frodo raised his glass of Old Winyards (not the oldest bottle he'd known, but still a lucky save from the Ruffians' stores) in a solemn toast. “To homes lost and made anew, not for the things that have made them, but for those we love that make them a home.”

“And to every love whose memory is all that remains, but is no less cherished for their absence.” added Merry.

“And to honor, and courage, and protecting what we love, no matter how frightened it makes us.” Pippin raised his glass in kind.

Eyes turned of a sudden to Sam, who was caught off-guard by the attention, and hurried to raise his own glass, hesitating briefly, “To love.” he said, his voice thick, and he caught Frodo's eye.

Fatty shook his head, smiling. “Well, it's quite impossible to out-do any of you, my lads, and so I will not try.” he raised his glass. “To all of us, every last hobbit, from old Will to even Mistress Lobelia, may the hair on her toes never fall out, and the arm for her umbrella grow no less strong. But most of all, my friends, to the four of you, whom without our Shire would be a very small and mean place indeed.

“To Captains Meriadoc and Peregrin, for your courage at the Battle of Bywater; Master Gardener Samwise for the greenest hands our little land has ever seen; and Deputy-Mayor Frodo Baggins,” he paused, and smiled, overcome, at Frodo, “Elf-friend and Bearer of the One Ring. He who's seen the recovery of our little Shire, after seeing the saving of the world.”

Frodo ducked his head, feeling unworthy of such praise, though smiles of approval surrounded the table. Folco, still rather out of his element, brought his own glass up, and sighed. “Indeed I can outdo none of you, and frankly still fall short on understanding quite all of this business, but I know we all are very grateful to our four extravagant Travelers. May the hair on your toes never fall out, and your gardens prosper eternal, the thanks of the Shire be with you.”

“Hear, hear!” the table echoed, as the clinking of many glasses made a chorus of chimes. The wine was rich and sweet, and for a time Frodo was able to forget the troubles of the world.

Dinner was nothing short of the most delicious Frodo had had in a long while, even better than the handful of formal dinners he'd shared with Will over which they spoke of Mayoral affairs. It was a proper hobbit meal with many courses, including mushroom soup, buttered and friend mushrooms, mashed potatoes, shepard's pies, an admirable and savory roast, more pudding of both sausage and sweet varieties than one could name in a breath, and much, much more. Dessert also had a grand assortment of sweets, from candies and toffees and tarts to cakes and pies, but the unequivocal centerpiece was the strawberry and cream cake Frodo and Sam had made together. Strawberries were yet to be in season, leaving them to come from a jam for the cake, but no one seemed much able to tell the difference.

Several bottles of Old Winyards disappeared over the course of dinner and the less formal regalings of this or that in the parlor, though Frodo and Sam drank little and less to keep their wits about them. From time to time Frodo wondered if his friends thought anything much, for all of what Merry and Pippin knew of the Quest and after, and how Frodo and Sam sat next to each other now in the parlor and at dinner, and that as the night grew more relaxed, how they touched on occasion. There would be some form of announcement soon, he supposed, but not just tonight.

Though Frodo was greatly heartened and happy to hear of all the exploits of his friends, and clarify more of this or that to Folco and Fatty, and sing songs until their voices broke, as the hour drew later he began to wish they might settle soon and head for bed. It seemed that after they came in from the garden, Merry took note of this, and jovially clapped Pippin on the shoulder. “Well, lads, I'm still in the mood for drink and song, though it seems we're overcoming our host a little.” He then took Folco under his arm. “How about we all head down to the _Dragon_ and let Mr. Baggins settle back into his own home with an hour of peace or two, eh?”

“Oh, that's not-” Frodo went to say, but Pippin cut him off.

“Aye, that's a fine idea. No offense, Frodo; wine's fine and all, but your beer barrels are in need of a refill. I say I need an ale, lads.”

“I'll, eh,” Sam glanced at Frodo, “stay, if you don't mind me, Sirs, an' be workin' on the dishes.”

Merry waved a hand at the gardener as he shuffled the others towards the door. “Nevermind them, Sam. We'll be back in a few hours and take care of 'em, being your guests and all.”

Thanks to Merry's persuasion and the greater intoxication of Folco, Pippin and Fatty than anyone else, the four guests swept out of Bag End in a quick but not ungraceful fashion, and from beyond the door Frodo and Sam could hear a song being sung as they went down the lane.

“Well,” Frodo's eyes turned to Sam, who looked still surprised, but was calming, “we've the smial to ourselves. … Would you like another glass of wine?”

–

“Bugger!” said Pippin, stopping short and causing a great deal of stumbling among his friends, whose arms were linked with his own. “I forgot my scarf!”

“Blimey, Pip!” said Merry, recovering his balance and standing at his full height to look with some disappointment at his younger cousin. “You'd forget your own head if it weren't attached to you. And what do you need it for now anyway? We'll be going back.”

Pippin stuck out his lower lip, and reminding Merry suddenly he still wasn't even of age yet. “It's still early spring, Merry, and this evening's already chilly! I don't want a cold!”

Merry rolled his eyes. “Fine; but be quick in getting back. We won't slow down our walking or drinking if you don't catch up.”

Pippin flashed a grin, untangled himself from their bewildered friends, and darted back up to the smial, remembering he'd left it in the parlor as the smial had grown warmer and the drinks flowed more freely.

He didn't announce himself as he entered the smial again, and left the door open behind him, only intending to be inside for a moment. He went down the hall and turned to the parlor, expecting Frodo and Sam to be in the kitchen, but stopped short when he entered the room.

His scarf was lying on the armchair he'd occupied that evening, but it was hardly the most interesting thing to be seen. On the sofa a few chairs away, beyond the coffee table on which stood two partially-empty wine glasses, were Frodo and Sam. Sam was laying across lengthwise and sitting up against the armrest, while Frodo was above him, straddling him. And they were kissing.

Pippin stared for a long moment, considering in that brief time he could do many things. He had told Merry he wanted his scarf, because he did want it. But, he'd just stepped towards the edge of a very precious bubble, and there was little chance he'd be able to get his scarf without popping it.

He nodded to himself, and still unobserved, turned on his heel and walked back out with hobbit stealth. He sighed a heavy breath of relief that the door did not creak as he closed it, and then stood to consider and regather himself.

“Weren't a dragon's throat old Sam jumped down,” Pippin murmured to himself, “but fighting a great Spider and infiltrating an Orc tower and all of that? They best tell me when the wedding is.” he began to walk down to join his friends, his hands in his pockets as he thought. If anyone were worthy of Frodo, he decided, it was Sam Gamgee.

“'Ey, Merry,” he said when he caught up to the others nearer the bottom of the Hill, “I owe you sixpence.”

“How's that? And where's your scarf?”

“Oh, couldn't find it. Anyway, I mark there'll be a wedding in the family soon.”

Only Merry's eyes widened with understanding. Fatty looked between them, trying to understand, while Folco stared in utter bafflement at Pippin. “Who, then?! And how'd you find that out? Did someone shout it from the top of the Hill and we didn't hear it?”

“Eh, you could say that.” said Pippin, and sauntered ahead.

–

Sam's shirt was coming open, and neither of them were able to resist the intermittent jerking of their hips. “Oh, Sam-love,” Frodo's lips trailed from Sam's mouth to his ear, “are you ready for bed?”

Sam held him close, his nose and lips pressed hard against Frodo's neck – against his pulse, and his exhale billowed warm air across Frodo's skin and made it tingle. “Yes, yes please.”

Frodo pushed himself up enough to look down at Sam, whose eyes were large and searching and full of love, and his hair was tangled already, and his lips a touch redder than his cheeks. “You are so beautiful, my darling,” he murmured, and bent to kiss him once more, long and slow on the mouth. “With me, love,” he whispered after he drew away.

He slipped off his love and stood for a moment unsteadily on the floor, taking Sam's hand in his own and helping him to stand, and then lead him out of the parlor. He retrieved the chilled bowl of strawberries and cream saved earlier in the day, and pulled Sam up to walk beside him with an encouraging and gentle smile, and together they went down the hall.

The bowl was shifted from Frodo's grasp to Sam's as they arrived at the door of the master bedroom, and Sam inhaled sharply as Frodo turned the doorknob and pushed it open.

The room was not as Frodo remembered from long ago. Not all of the furniture could be saved from Saruman's ruin, but the new things that had been brought in held their own charm. The new rug was soft under Frodo's feet as he led Sam inside, and left him to stand looking as Frodo closed the door and kindled a fire in the hearth.

Sam had been in the room already – many times before, Frodo assumed, to oversee its refurbishment and refurnishing, and of course to move his own things in, but he supposed Sam had never before seen it lit by firelight and with Frodo in it. As Sam still stood, Frodo lit candles by the nightstand, and drew a bottle of oil from the nightstand to set by the hearth to warm. He turned to his love, who held the bowl to his chest, looking about him in awe and blushing. “We're here,” his voice was faint with a struggle to believe what he was seeing, “at last.”

Frodo looked about again as well, and felt himself smiling. It would never be as it was, but Frodo did not mind some of the changes and additions, such as the dear sweet hobbit that was standing shyly in front of him. “And I would not want to be anywhere else.”

Sam's eyes focused on him. “Nor me.” His hold on the bowl loosened, and he studied it and then Frodo. “We're home.”

Frodo stepped forward. “And together, as I hope we will be for a very long time to come.”

“I'll do all I can to see it so.” Frodo took the bowl from Sam, and for the moment set it on the trunk at the foot of the bed.

“Are you ready, Samwise?”

The gardener took his master's hand – master in service no longer, but unequivocally the lord of his heart – and kissed it. “Aye, Frodo.”

Though they had done this more than once before, their hands still trembled with nerves as buttons came undone while they kissed. The fire crackled quietly and warmed them, and in time as their waistcoats slid with soft whispers to the floor, and their shirts were untucked and slowly unbuttoned, they eased into the sweet and familiar taste and touch of one another, and forgot to be afraid.

Sam tasted of strawberries and wine and cream, and Frodo practically melted into his arms and further into his kisses once they were both free of their shirts and braces.

Sam had to push him gently to get enough space between them to be able to kneel. As he sank down he pressed kisses to Frodo's left shoulder, his sternum and his navel, before settling on his knees and reverently unbuttoning his breeches. Frodo watched him, enchanted as if under a spell; how confident and gentle he was in his task. Frodo laced his fingers into Sam's hair and rubbed his scalp, and Sam paused his work to look up him, unsmiling, though his eyes glittered with reverence.

Without looking away he leaned forward and pressed a kiss below Frodo's navel, against the downy trail that led beyond the waist of his breeches, and then Sam closed his eyes. His hands raised to the placket briefly, then to Frodo's hips, and his fingers curled around the waistband of his breeches and briefs, and carefully pulled down. His kisses sank with Frodo's clothes, down that trail of hair as it thickened, and to one side against the joint of Frodo's hip, as his trousers and briefs were brought to his ankles. Frodo could not step out of them before Sam turned his head and pressed gentle kisses against the base of his already stiff cock, and further to his sac, causing the older hobbit to inhale sharply. “Ah- Samwise, not yet.” gently he pulled on Sam's hair, bringing his head up and away to look at him. “You're still overdressed.”

In faint embarrassment, Sam briefly pressed his nose against Frodo's navel again, before rising, and allowing Frodo to do much the same to him. Once Sam was bared and they were both completely free of clothes, Frodo was still on his knees, and found himself painfully tempted by Sam's cock, its head already slick with anticipation. He held himself at eye level to it, admiring it, before glancing over to the bowl and bed beyond it. “What would you like first?”

Sam's eyes followed his, but were larger and less focused, acutely aware of Frodo's every breath. “I-” he said, trying hard to think, “... a bit of mouthplay first, mayhap, an' then...?”

Frodo pressed a wet kiss of agreement to Sam's head, and he whimpered. “Do you want to be on the bed?”

“Won't the sheets get sticky?”

“Sheets can be cleaned.”

“... The bed.”

Quieter than a whisper, Frodo rose, taking Sam's hand again, and in his other he took the bowl. He lead Sam to the bedside, placed the bowl on the nightstand at hand, and then turned back the covers. “Do you want to lie down?”

“I just want to see you.”

Frodo giggled softly. “My silly, sweet strawbaby. Lie down, and I'll give you what loving I know how.”

Sam's hand slipped out of Frodo's, and with care enough to make him look like he were handling spun glass, he very slowly and gently sat on the bed, watching Frodo as if for guidance and approval, before raising his legs and turning to carefully lie back on the pillows. Frodo watched him in kind, a feeling he knew was love growing large in his chest. “You can relax, love. We've done this sort of thing before, and I'm sure the bed was made to last.”

Sam's chest heaved as he tried to calm himself, but found that was much harder as Frodo got atop the bed as well, and settled to straddle his stomach. He took the bowl in hand again, and his eyes flickered between Sam and it.

“This will be a bit messy, I suppose. But nevermind that; I only want this to taste and feel good.” and Frodo dipped his fingers into the bowl and withdrew a scoop of cream mixed with small bits of chopped strawberries, and offered it to Sam. Who slipped his lips over it and Frodo's fingers, and withdrew slowly, keeping his eyes locked with Frodo's, until the cream finally hit his tongue, and he closed them.

“Mm,” he hummed, sliding his lips from Frodo's fingers “ah, that's bliss on the tongue.”

“I'm glad of that.” They kissed again, many times, Frodo intermittently smearing more cream between their mouths, and they licked one another with delighted abandon, moaning and beginning to squirm as they went.

Soon enough Frodo left Sam with a last taste of the cream, before he slid off to Sam's side and took the bowl with him, down beyond Sam's hips and between his legs. He spoke soft compliments to Sam as he set to work, spreading a trail of cream from Sam's navel down to, and up along his cock. Sam blushed at the praise, and moaned and rocked his hips at the touch, especially as the cream was still slightly chilled.

Frodo intended to remedy that soon enough, and keeping his gaze up at Sam's face as often as he could, he began licking and kissing down Sam's tummy, savoring the strawberries and cream, until he reached Sam's shaft. He initially ran a string of kisses up one side, gathering cream and the salt of sweat and precum on his lips as he went, before pulling away at the head to lick his lips and consider. Sam's breathing was already erratic and a sheen of sweat glistened in the candlelight on his chest, and he watched Frodo with expectant curiosity.

After a short deliberation, Frodo replaced the trail of cream he'd just removed from Sam's shaft, and then starting with a long, slow swipe of his tongue along Sam's head – which brought Sam to cry out – Frodo began to lick and kiss up and down the sides of Sam's shaft again and again. He replaced the cream coating intermittently, and paused every other round to nuzzle further between Sam's legs, and take one and then the other of his testicles in his mouth, and suck it and roll it with his tongue gently.

The combination of the sweetness of the cream and the juiciness of the strawberries paired better than Frodo ever could've imaged with the taste of salt and headier musk from Sam's leaking crown. What made the taste sweeter still was hearing and watching Sam moan and writhe and stare at him enthralled as Frodo worked, and it wasn't long before Frodo began using his hands to hold Sam's erratic hips down while he licked and kissed.

By the time Sam had begun to whimper and plead Frodo's name in that pleasured, delirious way, Frodo took a large dollop from the bowl and smeared it on Sam's head, before doing much the same as Sam had done before with his fingers. Frodo slid his lips over Sam's crown and began to suckle gently, bringing one hand to his shaft and beginning to pump it slowly but firmly.

Any reserves Sam might have had now disappeared, and he yelled his pleasure and Frodo's name, one hand clutching white-knuckled at the bedsheets, while the other was tangled in Frodo's hair and pulling on it just shy of pain. As he could, Frodo observed him, filled with delight to be loving Sam so, at last in his own bed, in this home that was now theirs. As he felt Sam beginning to tense underneath him, Frodo watched him with an even greater intensity than before, and quirked an eyebrow at him, before pressing his tongue into the slit of Sam's head, and running it along and down to the most sensitive cleft below.

Sam keened, and Frodo felt the recoil as Sam's entire lower body jerked upwards, and hard, and a moment later Frodo felt in his hand and mouth Sam's cock beginning to pulse, before a flood of seed hit his tongue. It was musky and salty and just a touch bitter – Sam's most personal taste – mixed with the trace remains of the lighter sweet, sweet stickiness of the strawberries and cream.

Frodo swallowed it greedily, and continued squeezing Sam for some time to procure the last drops of his release as Sam slowly lowered himself, panting and quietly moaning Frodo's name.

A last, approving kiss was placed on Sam's softening head, before Frodo sighed, and straightened, sitting back on his feet to look contentedly at Sam. “You look like you done stuck your face in the bowl!” Sam's breathing was ragged but his laughter amid it obvious.

Frodo blinked, and raised a sticky hand to his face, and felt blotches of cream across his cheeks and nose. “I suppose I must, yes!” he laughed.

“... I could lick you clean.”

That, of course, was not an offer Frodo could refuse, and with somewhat unsteady limbs, he brought himself and the bowl up next to Sam again, and Sam sat up slowly, before cupping Frodo's cheeks and pulling him down into a long bout of wet kisses. Eventually, he did reach Frodo's cheeks and nose and lick them clean, or at least as clean as they could be, considering the progressive stickiness of them both.

“Was that good?” Frodo was a bit breathless as they parted, but not so much as Sam.

“It were, an' more besides; more than I've words for. Thank'ee...” a hand slid to Frodo's hip, and Sam's expression became demure and asking. “Can I give the same to you?”

“Always.”

Still with some effort, Sam helped guide Frodo to now straddle his chest, Frodo's knees settled at Sam's underarms, and Frodo's cock level with Sam's head, when his head was raised, which Frodo helped support with his hands.

The cream was still colder than Frodo had been expecting when Sam began to cover his cock with it, but the temperature was not a long-lasting problem. Soon enough the wet warmth of Sam's mouth enveloped his head, and Frodo was lost to the waves of burning pleasure that rolled from his cock up to his abdomen and through the rest of him.

From their position, Sam could not lick as freely as Frodo had been able to, but that made no matter when Sam ran his tongue in long strokes along the underside of Frodo's shaft, and slid it along the slit and pressed the tip against that sensitive cleft. Sam held a wonderfully sweet grip that intermittently changed between Frodo's hips and rump, and at times one hand or the other would come forward to pump his length or hold his sac in a blissfully tight squeeze.

It was now Frodo's turn to wail and sob, wave after wave of incredible pleasure pulsing through him it felt at each minute movement, and his hands were tangled and deeply lost in Sam's golden hair, and pulled this way and that, and were it not for Sam's strong arms and hands, his hips would've bucked too far forward long ago. He cried Sam's name and gasped how good his touch, and how much he loved him, and mourned only he could not stop arching his back long enough to look down and see Sam's face.

It felt far too soon, when he shrieked Sam's name in warning as he felt everything in him tightening with singular purpose, and he convulsed a final time to spill wave after wave of seed into Sam's mouth, while his groin was alight with a delectable fire and sent it rocketing up his spine and through every other fiber of him.

He gasped, and his shoulders sank at the end of his release. Sam suckled him still for a few moments longer, still holding Frodo, who was now trembling from their efforts. “Oh, my Sam,” he mumbled, easing his grip in Sam's hair and stroking his head to amend for the pulling and tugging, “my dearest love.”

Sam slipped his mouth free of Frodo's shaft, and leaned his head back with a long breath that filled his lungs and raised Frodo at least an inch further above him. “I'm hopin' that were okay?”

“Yes, love. It was like being brought up to the sky and flying, and then at the end like falling, to be embraced by soft earth.”

To Frodo's surprise, a little crease appeared on Sam's brow, and as best he could he hugged Frodo's lower half and in overplayed consternation, pressed his face against Frodo's tummy. “You always go sayin' things so much prettier than me.”

“I've just had more practice with verbose older hobbits, is all.” Still a little dazed, Frodo playfully ruffled his hair. “I know what you mean when it's important.”

Sam's breath was hot against his stomach, and after a particularly lengthy sigh, Sam loosened his hug and turned his head up, smiling. “I am glad of that, me dear.”

Subsequently, with some help, Frodo slid off to Sam's side, and collapsed back on the pillows beside him. They noticed there was still a bit of cream left in the bowl, and it would be wise to renew their strength before their second course.

With some effort they sat up a bit more, and Frodo cuddled himself under Sam's arm, and much like children given a nearly-cleaned bowl of batter, they ate the last of it with their hands, often feeding it to each other. “I ain't never done sommat like this afore,” Sam said after a while, “wi' food an' all, that is. It... it were messier than I were expectin', though I don't know whyever I might've thought it'd be a tidy business. … It do taste good, wi' you, if you get my meanin'.”

Frodo shifted, snuggling closer, and humming both with laughter and thought. “Yes, yes I do; it tastes good with you as well. My favorite course of the night so far, I think.” he pressed a kiss to his love's cheek. “And I'm glad the night's not yet over.”

They lay together even until after the bowl was as as clean as they could get it, kissing and talking quietly about their room, until Frodo rose and set the bowl aside to the nightstand. “I propose fetching some water and a towel to clean us up a bit, and then, well... the special thing we've been saving, if you're ready.”

“I'm ready, Frodo-love.”

This agreed, Frodo departed briefly to the adjoining washroom, and returned with two towels and a pitcher. In a few minutes the hobbits had managed what they could of cleaning themselves of the sticky residue left by the cream. They did what they could to wash off their groins as well, and with only minimal rubbing and tugging, Sam was abashed to be hard again. “That's exactly the point of all this, you know,” Frodo teased, disappearing back to the washroom with their towels and pitcher.

When he returned, he went first near the hearth to retrieve the bottle, which was now pleasantly warm to the touch, and then he settled next to Sam back on the bed. “I fear repeating myself overmuch tonight, but I feel it appropriate to ask again how you'd like this.” They'd spoken a little now and again on what exactly this long-expected celebration might be like, but for the most part had kept many fantasies to themselves, not wanting to grow overexcited and then bitter for their agreement to wait.

“I just want to see you.” Sam rubbed his arm sheepishly. “An'- an'... I want to feel you inside me first.”

Frodo considered the very hard state of Sam's cock, which soon led to the same for his own. “I believe that can be arranged. Lie back again, love. I'll take care of you.”

Sam did as he was asked, and Frodo resettled himself between his tented legs. “This will feel a bit... odd.” Frodo warned. He knew Sam wasn't completely inexperienced with this, but any experience he did know was a long ways behind him. “I'll go slowly, but there will be a stretch; please tell me if anything hurts.” his love nodded, and gave himself entirely, trustingly, to Frodo.

The oil was as warm as the bottle, and Frodo poured a measured amount onto his hands, and slicked them, before setting them to Sam's skin. He first worked to rub some of the tension out of Sam's bottom, getting him used to the touch and the pressure, before working progressively inwards, and beginning to stroke and press along the sides of his pucker. Sam made soft sounds and shifted a little as Frodo worked, but to Frodo's relief, he seemed to be working slowly enough to cause no discomfort.

After long enough, he poured another draught of oil onto his hands, and said, “I'm going to try sliding a finger inside, now; tell me if it's too much.” Sam nodded seriously, and Frodo proceeded to press him open, and slowly slide one of his fingers inside his love.

“Oh! Oh-”

“Does it hurt?”  
“N-nay, it- it just feels,” Frodo felt the ring of muscle fluttering around his finger, which was only in to the first knuckle, “mighty odd.”

“That will pass,” he promised, and placed a kiss on Sam's knee. Slowly, and with more squirming and squeaking from Sam – but never of pain or protest – Frodo slid in a second finger, then a third, trying to calm his imagination and his thoughts on how it would feel when it wasn't his fingers inside Sam. “Now this,” Frodo pressed his fingers deeper still, “should feel very good,” and he curled them, and to the surprise of both of them Sam arched his back and yelped. “Your sweet spot.”

Sam was breathless. “That it is.”

Frodo rubbed and stroked him for a short while after that, careful not to press too hard, before sliding his fingers out. “Are you ready, love?”

“Aye.”

“Again, if anything hurts, tell me.” another little crease appeared on Sam's brow, but he looked more like he was pouting, as if to say, 'I will, you know; you can get on, now!'

Frodo slicked his cock with a bit more oil, now, and settled himself so he had a hand on the bed on either side of Sam, above his legs, which were raised high on his toes and pressing lightly against Frodo's sides. Frodo murmured some small warning and comfort as he took himself in one hand and gently guided himself against Sam's entrance, and then pressed inside.

Both of them gasped, Sam for the sudden heat and size of what was inside him, and Frodo for Sam's reaction to begin squeezing that ring of muscle again. It took several seconds for Sam to relax again, and Frodo pressed further, the intermittent tightnesses growing lighter each time.

Sam's body was soft and warm all around him, and so blissfully slick and tight. “Oh, Sam,” he whimpered without realizing it, “you're so- perfect-”

The only response he received for a moment was a succession of unintelligible noises. “You're _big_,” Sam finally gasped at last – which was something they'd discussed before, but concluded Sam was the more admirable of the two in that category, “I'm- it's so _tight_, oh-”

“Not- not too tight?”

“_No!_ Don't- don't you go pulling out!”

Frodo would've laughed had he the breath. “I shan't, love, I swear.” In fact he did just the opposite, and pressed deeper, right up to his root, and amid the softness inside Sam he felt the top of his head rub against a harder bump, and Sam's back arched again.

“That's bliss,” he burbled.

“Yes,” was not quite what Frodo had meant to say, but it was enough. He felt a trickle of sweat fall from his temple and saw it land on Sam's stomach, and then began to slowly pull back, but far from all the way out.

The bedroom echoed soft sounds and loud for the next several minutes; cries of delight and nondescript moans, but most of all names, and only two. Frodo dared to believe this felt even better than what Sam had before shown he was able to do with his mouth; being buried deep in his love at last, and sharing their bodies as intimately as possible, and experiencing this blissfully tight heat squeezing all around him, and that sweet nub inside that made Sam cry so loud and press even harder against Frodo's head.

Blood began pounding in his ears the further and faster he rocked, and he payed no mind to the dull ache that was slowly developing in his shoulders as he did, because the heat around his cock was becoming almost too much to bear, especially as Sam kept squeezing him – harder and harder – and it began rolling through his abdomen, and then-

He was shaking, most especially in his arms as he cried Sam's name, his spine popping as it snapped forward like a drawn bow, and his hips rammed forward and brought him as deeply inside Sam as he could go, and there he spilled his seed, all the while Sam squeezing and squeezing him for every last drop.

The last thing he wanted to do was leave Sam's warmth, even as his arms threatened to abandon his weight and he felt his cum beginning to leak out around him. “Oh, Samwise.” his sight was bleary as it fell on Sam, and his head fell drunkenly into Sam's hand when it rose to caress his cheek.

“Me dear Frodo,” Sam's chest was shining with sweat, and his body shook as well, “me dear.”

There was something most especially wonderful, as Frodo's vision cleared, to see Sam lying there on his back, on a bed they now shared, contended with Frodo's gift of his love. There was no need for an apology, but Frodo gave it anyway as he slowly slid out of Sam, and fell to sit on one hip as he recovered his breath, and Sam lowered his shaking legs. “That were one of the sweetest things ever you gave me,” he said.

“And you to me,” Frodo replied, wanting to touch him but for that moment had not the strength, “but I've one more thing to give you.” His eyes were on Sam's shaft, which was still hard, though it had leaked a great deal.

“If you're too tired-”

Frodo shook his head, and crawled up to settle next to Sam. “No, I'm quite all right. I wouldn't dare sleep when offered so marvelous a gift.” he swept back some of his hair, which was now damp with sweat.

Sam was not yet convinced. “I don't want to go drivin' the Master of Bag End to exhaustion on his first night home.”

It was now Frodo's turn to jut out his lower lip, accompanied by a little scowl. “The Master of Bag End does not succumb to exhaustion from lovemaking.” Sam raised an eyebrow, and Frodo's little pout deepened. “Shall I get on my back or my knees, Master Gamgee?”

This seemed to convince Sam, for his questioning expression vanished to be replaced with something more typical and shy. “I were wondering, actually, if- mayhap you'd sit on me?”

Though this wasn't something they'd much discussed before, Frodo was still surprised by the request; the riding position was not common in most of his fantasies, but he was not the sort to refuse it. “I would be delighted to.”

Before that, Sam sat up, and Frodo did nevertheless get on his knees, and reveled in the warmth of Sam's strong, calloused hands, covered in oil and rubbing and stretching him. Sam was perhaps even slower and gentler than Frodo was, giving him plenty of time to recover his strength, and himself delight in the feeling of being filled for the first time in a long while, and by such a wonderful touch. But he was very eager to finally experience the sensation of Sam's member inside him, and had no hesitation in saying, “Yes,” when Sam finally, tentatively asked if Frodo thought he was ready.

Sam lay back one more time, and atop him Frodo settled once more, but slowly, and carefully, Sam's hands on his hips and guiding him down to settle on his cock. The process of actually bringing Sam inside him was almost like delightful torture for Frodo; initially it was fun to play a bit rubbing against his head, but then as he properly settled and began to slide down Sam, he was slightly afraid. Enamored completely with Sam's size and the heat of his member and how tight their fit together- but also just a bit afraid of that tightness.

Sam was the largest partner Frodo had ever had, at least in thickness, and as he slid further down and felt himself stretching more and more, he wondered if he'd be able to fit all of Sam inside him, or if Sam would be too big.

He moaned, quite triumphantly, when he finally settled on Sam's hips, filled with his love to his hilt. Sam's hold on his hips was like iron, and Frodo could feel Sam's legs shaking. “Oh, oh Frodo dear,” he whimpered, “you're- you're so hot and tight, I- ohh,” his breath was coming in gasps, and he was struggling not to push deeper into Frodo when he could not, “you're bliss-”

“And you fill me so perfectly, Sam,” Frodo gasped in kind, squeezing himself tight Sam's member and causing them both to moan, “you're so big and fit so tightly- I love you so, darling, and how good you make me feel-”

“Frodo!” was one of the last coherent things they said for the next little while, as Frodo had begun trying to slowly rise, and the sensation for them both set their blood afire. Their fit was incredibly tight, it was true, but that made the motion as they moved together beyond description, and Sam filled Frodo all the way to his own sweet spot and beyond every time Frodo dropped his hips. Frodo hoped, in time, perhaps they'd be able to make their motions a bit faster and more rhythmic, but as it was, for all the pleasure they'd already known this night, and Frodo growing accustomed to the stretch to accommodate Sam, they went very slowly, though from time to time Sam could not help the surge of his hips.

It could not have been very long, at least as far as Frodo could estimate, before Sam's cries grew louder and more strained once more, and to Frodo's disbelief he wondered if he could feel Sam swelling even bigger inside him than before, as Sam's back began arching. Soon enough, his hips followed, and brought Frodo with them, and Sam's moans ended with a final, lengthy shout of “FRODO!” that drew out the second 'o' longer than Frodo had ever heard before.

But that was not Frodo's focus; what was, happened to be divided between two things: the look of pure physical delight he saw on Sam's face as he came, and the sensation of being filled to bursting with Sam's seed.

Sam's hips did lower, eventually, taking Frodo with them. Sam made no great comment for a long while, simply making noises much like 'unf' and 'ungh' as Frodo gently squeezed him still, in spite of feeling seed beginning to run down his thighs. “Samwise,” he said at last, carefully leaning forward and supporting himself on Sam's chest, “are you quite well?”

“Better than well,” Sam mumbled eventually, blinking and looking clearly at last up at Frodo, “just... a bit overcome, mayhap.”

By now even smiling cost some effort, but Frodo managed it anyway. “Ah, not who you were expecting to be overcome, eh?”

“Cheeky Baggins,” Sam pursed his lips and smacked Frodo's bottom lightly.

“Saucy Gamgee,” Frodo replied with greater smugness, wriggling his hips and causing Sam to gasp, initially from the movement, and then for having slid off his member. Frodo set himself down briefly on Sam's hip bone, still not trusting he'd be able to land gently in a heap next to Sam. “I... hope that was as you'd been hoping it would be?”

Sam's arms came up and around him, and there was little Frodo needed to do to be brought gently down into a hug. His love nosed and kissed his neck, and held him tight, and didn't speak until after Frodo felt him take a long and thoughtful breath. “Aye. ... It was worth everything.”

And somehow, Frodo did not think he had ever received an answer that touched him so deeply. “I'm very happy for that.” he said eventually, and shifted to kiss Sam slowly for a long while. They touched foreheads after, and Frodo studied Sam's eyes. “I... I'm very happy that... after everything, this... was finally a perfect moment for us to share.”

“If there's a word that means more n' perfect, tonight was that.” They kissed again, and Frodo gently slid off of Sam and cuddled up against his side.

“Yes,” Frodo agreed, “yes it was.” Sam reached for the coverlet and pulled it up to their shoulders. “Thank you, Sam-love.”

“An' thank you, Frodo dear.”

Something swelled in Frodo's chest, and he made no effort to hide his tears as they came, though they surprised him. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Frodo stirred again just before he fell asleep, long enough to blow out the candles. Sam's arms wrapped around him as he resettled, and he looked about the darkening room a final time. _Home, _he thought, before he slept, and knew no troubled dreams.

-

A pair of bluebirds were chirping not far outside the garden in the early hour of dawn. Frodo stirred and rolled partway over to see what the fuss was about, and it took him some time to remember he was in his own bed and looking out his own window.

He had to blink several times before his eyes adjusted to the growing light, and he was able to see in a tree at the edge of the garden, the bluebirds were flying back and forth in turns, sometimes with twigs and others with leaves, and once even a bit of lace. _Nesting_, Frodo rubbed his eyes, and rolled back, briefly surprised to find Sam was still sleeping next to him. The events of the night before returned to him, and he lay down, surprised again by the feeling that overwhelmed his heart and limbs.

Carefully, as to not wake Sam, he draped his arm over his love's chest as it had been in the night, and nestled near again, aware of the beat of their hearts. Perhaps the world was not behind them forever, but for the night before, and as Frodo wanted to make certain, this morning, it was. He was at odds over whether or not to wake Sam, wanting his gardener to get his necessary rest after having kept him up so late the night before, but also eager to rouse him with kisses.

In the end, Frodo made the decision to rise again – this time fully out of bed – without disturbing Sam. Alas for his plan, the sudden absence of his weight and warmth was enough to stir Sam from slumber. “Where you goin', then?” Sam asked sleepily as Frodo got to his feet.

“Only to the window,” and Frodo wondered if somehow it would be more than that. He went to the latch and pushed open the window, and a cool morning breeze carrying the smell and sound of spring gently poured in. He admired the hardworking bluebirds across the yard for some minutes, before reaching a decision. “Would you close your eyes for a few minutes, Sam?”

“... How come?”

“If I told you that, you wouldn't have to close your eyes.”

“... Just don't go away.”

“I won't, I promise.” Frodo looked over his shoulder, and saw Sam – now on his side – had done as asked, though his brows were knit.

Frodo then drew back the lefthand curtain from the window, and revealed an ornate vase of silver and gold, decorated in relief with tall, twining flowers and trees. Golden _elanor _spilled over the lip of the vase, and all their shining blossoms danced in the breeze, save one in the center.

Frodo held it with gentle but firm hands, and returned to bed. “Can I open my eyes now?” Sam asked as he felt Frodo's weight return.

“Yes.” and so Sam did, and his eyes more than ever seemed to shine with golden flecks as he stared at the vase of flowers.

“Those- they're... they're _elanor- _like from Lorien.”

“They are, yes. They're my gift to you- a... a gift of promise, and even of binding, if you would so have it.” Sam sat up, the confusion on his face turning to shock. “I offer this as a gift of engagement to you, Sam, if you would grant me the very highest honor of becoming my husband.”

Sam was breathless, and tears fell faster from his eyes than he could speak. “You'd- you'd marry me? Oh bless-”

“As long as you'd marry me.” said Frodo gingerly. “I promise to love you until the last one dies.”

Sam looked long between the flowers and Frodo, until his eyes grew wider still, and he touched the flower in the center of the arrangement. “This one t'is... glass.”

“It is.”

Sam then more steadily took the vase with one of his own hands, and with the other held Frodo's cheek. “Yes.” and the vase was set safely aside, and the newly engaged tangled themselves in one another's arms, and did not stop kissing until the sun was well higher in the sky.

Frodo remembered the taste of strawberries and cream, for it was still on Sam's lips, and he realized they were not so unlike the birds nesting beyond the window. Their nest had not been so easy to build, but here they were in it together, at last.

The glass _elanor _gleamed in the growing light like a star fallen to earth, and it was never said to have stopped.


End file.
